


December Birthday/Holiday Giveaway

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Additional Warnings Apply, Aged-Up Character(s), All Caste (DCU), Alpha Dick Grayson, Alpha Tim Drake, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Jason Todd, Assassination Attempt(s), Beta Roy Harper, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Blowjobs, Boats and Ships, Breathplay, Broken Bones, Brotherly Affection, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne’s (Genuinely) A+ Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Choking, Claiming Bites, Comedy, Computer Programming, Crime Fighting, December Giveaway, Deepthroating, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Double Penetration, Dystopia, Edgeplay, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Family Fluff, Female Jason Todd, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Forced Orgasm, Foreign Language, Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Gun Violence, Hacking, Hair-pulling, Handcuffs, Heaven & Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Immortals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Individual Tags in the Chapter Summary, Interviews, Kidnapping, Knives, Knotting, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mob Boss Dick Grayson, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Officer Jason Todd, Officer Slade Wilson, Omega Jason Todd, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Political Alliances, Polyamory, Possessiveness, Possible Character Death, Praise Kink, Prompt Fic, Prophet Damian Wayne, Prophet John Constantine, Protectiveness, Psychic Abilities, Rebellion/Resistance, Rescue, Resurrection, Rimming, Safewords, Secret Relationship, Sexual Assault, Size Difference, Slavery, Slow Dancing, Strangers to Friends, Subspace, Swords, Threats, Threats of Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Training, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Fingering, Vampire Hunters, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Voyeurism, Wings, handjobs, intersex omega, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 67,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Rating:Teen And Up AudiencesArchive Warning: No Archive Warnings ApplyCategory:M/MRelationship:Tim Drake/Jason ToddCharacters:Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Dick GraysonAdditional Tags:Time Travel, Established Relationship, Kidnapping, Magical ArtifactsWords:4495Summary:Tim and Jason have come a long way in three years, and all the attempted murders and harsh words are behind them. Water under the bridge. That is, until they find themselves thrust back into the past.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Duke Thomas & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul, Tim Drake/Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Series: Gift Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 234
Kudos: 366





	1. THE MASTERLIST

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Balloonacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balloonacy/gifts), [TaneKore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaneKore/gifts), [alphaofallcats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaofallcats/gifts), [strawberryjei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryjei/gifts), [artificiallifecreator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallifecreator/gifts), [CasualOtaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualOtaku/gifts), [tomato_carnage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_carnage/gifts), [Nash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nash/gifts), [njw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/njw/gifts), [Reagy_Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reagy_Jay/gifts), [batsaboutbats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batsaboutbats/gifts), [ride_the_dinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ride_the_dinos/gifts), [Alyson_Page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyson_Page/gifts), [Jane0Doe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doe/gifts), [mistralle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistralle/gifts), [FictionSuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionSuit/gifts), [elareine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/gifts), [TheMoon_in_thesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMoon_in_thesky/gifts).

**To The Readers:**

There will be 18 prompts, delivered one-per-day as a new chapter, over the course of December (with a few breaks thrown in for me). I will be updating this page daily as each prompt is uploaded, to create a masterlist with jump-links to each mini-fic/short story. Each prompt has been fan-suggested, so please be mindful of any criticism in your comments. I received such a broad range of prompts, so hopefully there will be something for everybody in here - but if something’s not to your taste, please feel free to check back in the next day for a new prompt! 

And as always, please be mindful of the tags. Each chapter summary will have a rating and tags summary - please read them before proceeding, as some are explicit and have been listed with warnings. I will update the entire work with all the collective tags once all of them have been posted, for searching purposes. But in the meantime, read the chapter summaries first and foremost. 

Hope you enjoy! 

* * *

**To The Prompters: **

All your suggestions have been spectacular, and immensely fun to write! Thank you for all being so prompt with your responses, and so thoughtful. I will be uploading each prompt anonymously; whilst each of them are unique enough that you _should_ be able to identify your own, I will make sure to message you individually on the day of upload to avoid any confusion. And now that the housekeeping is out of the way… 

Thank you all so very, very much! You’ve made my introduction to the DC Fandom very memorable; it’s been absolutely amazing, and I wouldn’t have felt so welcome without all your lovely comments and support. I honestly cannot express how thankful I am for each and every one of you. Hopefully I can express some of my gratitude through these prompts, but in case the message is lost somewhere amongst all the words - **_ thank you!! _**

* * *

**The Masterlist: **

1\. [Better Late Than Never](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51546199)

Tim and Jason have come a long way in three years, and all the attempted murders and harsh words are behind them. Water under the bridge. That is, until they find themselves thrust back into the past. 

2\. [You Don't Raise Heroes, You Raise Sons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51593107)

Sometimes being a parent means doing things with no expectation of thanks. Bruce doesn't mind. 

3\. [Tactician's Ancilla](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51639376)

In the near future, synthetic humans called replicants are grown, fitted with customisable personality programming, and sold for labour. A small insurgent collective known as The Resistance rescues enslaved replicants, providing them with new identities and reassimilating them into society under the guise of being natural-born humans. That is, until Drake Industries reveals their latest creation. 

4\. [Damiy, 'Aydina](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51670345)

Damian has been protected by Jason for years now, since before either of them returned to their father's care. But they've come a long way since their time in the League, and Damian's not a child anymore. Sometimes he's not the one who needs protecting. 

5\. [Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51680557)

Time and patience always go hand in hand; they are the oldest of worldly lovers. Ra’s knows them almost as well as he knows his own. 

6\. [Happy Birthday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51706492)

Tim and Roy grant all of Jason's birthday wishes. 

7\. [Twice Bitten, Thrice Shy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51792847)

When Jason came back from the dead, he Fell in more ways than one. And what he had to sacrifice to get back to his family has indebted him to more than one person. Jason’s not the kind of person to learn his lesson the first time when it’s his family on the line. 

8\. [Feather Your Nest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51811378)

Slade Wilson is a man of refined skill with a wealth of knowledge. When he comes looking to expand his mercenary repertoire for a recent job, Jay's surprised to find him at her door. 

9\. [Constellate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51876073)

Jason and Tim parted ways amicably enough. But they've never felt as comfortable with anyone else as they had with each other. So they try, and try again. 

10\. [To Pass The Impassable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51876469)

Dick's working a trafficking case when Jason drops in unexpectedly. He figures a last minute team up can't hurt, especially when the traffickers seem to be on the cusp of a major delivery of heat-inducing drugs. It's not like drugs targeted at omegas are going to have any adverse effects on two hot-blooded alphas, right? 

11\. [A Certain Step](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/51906892)

Mr Jason Todd of Wayne Manor, Gothamshire, was not a person who delighted in the crush of balls, but rather the quiet of literature. Mr Timothy Drake plans to change that. 

12\. [Accost & Assuage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52029070)

Tim is accosted by catcallers. Kon swoops in to save him. 

13\. [These Walls Have Ears, But They Won't Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52031425)

Slade should’ve known better than to assume Grayson’s pet officer had ever turned on the crime lord. Unfortunately, he enjoys the cost of his naivety more than he should. 

14\. [Paragore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52071844)

Sometimes, when Jason gets that green gleam in his eye, Dick and Tim have to work him down from his mania the only way they know how. 

15\. [Rumors, Rumors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52132939)

Red Hood is kidnapped and held for ransom to extort Tim Drake. His captors aren't the seasoned professionals he was hoping for. 

16\. [To Drive A Hard Bargain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52203037)

The last thing Tim needs right now is a stranger amongst his crew when he’s already watching his back. But the theurgical traveller who seems unwaveringly keen to board his ship drives a very hard bargain. 

17\. [Blood From A Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52237888)

Tim hasn't visited his old coven for decades. When the Wayne Coven prepares to receive their newest ward, Tim can't shirk the summons to the most important gala of the century. Luckily, there's a few old faces to keep him company. 

18\. [Reboot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616276/chapters/52314355)

Jason's a necromancer, of sorts. Not that he has any clue _how_ his necromancy works. But it'd seemed to work perfectly fine fixing broken phones in a small-time mall kiosk. Up until he'd caught the attention of eccentric CEO Timothy Drake-Wayne. 

* * *

**From the Author:**

November has been a doozy! But here we are on the other side, and I'm so glad to be able to share my birthday wishes with everybody. December is my very favourite month, and hopefully I've managed to share the joy around with the following prompts. They've been very fun to write, and opened me up to a lot of new styles and ideas - maybe a few of which I can expand on in the future!

So again, thank you very much to all my Prompters, and to all my Readers. You're the highlight of every single one of my days, I can't thank you enough. Thank you for an awesome year, and all the best for the next one! 


	2. Better Late Than Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Time Travel, Established Relationship, Kidnapping, Magical Artifacts 
> 
> **Words:** 4495 
> 
> **Summary:** Tim and Jason have come a long way in three years, and all the attempted murders and harsh words are behind them. Water under the bridge. That is, until they find themselves thrust back into the past.

“That?” Tim asks, glancing over at the diadem. “We’ve had that for years. Bruce and I retrieved it from an arts dealer trying to blackmail the mob, way back when I was Robin. She had no clue what it could do, but she knew it had some sort of meta abilities.” 

“What does it do?” Jason asks. 

Tim shrugs, leaning back in his desk chair. “Not sure exactly. Diana thinks it’s some sort of wormhole effector, but even she couldn’t give us a definite answer. We’ve just left it be.” 

“You’re not the slightest bit curious?” Jason presses with the curl of a grin, and lifts the casing. 

Tim’s on his feet in an instant, advancing on him with a scowl. “Woah, don’t touch that. We don’t know what it does, what it could do.” 

“Oh, come on,” Jason croons with a roll of his eyes as Tim lays a palm on the raised glass casing beside Jason’s hand. “If it hasn’t done anything in _ years _ what makes you think it’s going to do anything now?” 

“Just leave it be.” 

“But it’s so _ shiny,_” Jason teases, and Tim’s scowl deepens. Jason laughs. “C’mon, princess. You’d look great in it. It’d bring out those pretty baby blue eyes.” 

“Or it could unleash some catastrophic power,” Tim rejoins, pulling at the casing. It doesn’t shift beneath Jason’s weight. “Jason-” 

“Just one touch,” Jason purrs, and reaches for the brass. “You gotta learn to live a little, Timbo. Break a few of old man Brucie’s rules once in a while.” 

“No!” Tim bleats furiously, hand snapping out to block his fingers. “It’s not worth-” 

“It’s just a tiny-” 

There’s a spark of white light, and Tim’s ears fill with cotton, muffled and distant as the world cants sideways and rights itself violently. 

* * *

Jason comes to on his back, sprawled in the dew-slicked, immaculately groomed grass of the Manor’s front lawn. It feels like he’s taken a crowbar to the temple again, his skull protesting in that way that only violent displacement can warrant. 

Sitting up heralds in a whole new tier of nausea, so Jason slumps back down with a groan, flopping his arms out to either side and jolting when someone to his left protests with a resounding, “_Ow._” 

“Timbers?” Jason asks, squeezing his eyes shut. “That you?” 

“I don’t know,” comes the groggy, pained reply. “Who else was with you when you touched a magical diadem and opened up a wormhole dimension?” 

“Yeah,” Jason huffs. “That one’s on me.” 

“I _ told _ you-” 

“Can we save the ‘I told you’s for once we work out where the hell we are?” 

Tim lurches upright, long hair askew where it’s plastered to one side of his face with the dew. He squints up at the soft glow of ambient orange light. “Looks like the Manor to me.” 

Jason follows him into a sit, and reaches out to steady him when Tim sways nauseatingly. “No kidding. What kind of wormhole effector did Diana say it was?” 

“She didn’t,” Tim answers sourly, and Jason lifts a hand to fix his hair. “Could be temporal displacement, could be just a physical one. Could even be a multiverse scenario; you know how these magical items go.” 

“Okay, how do we work it out?” 

Tim rolls up to his knees with a groan, hands fisting in the grass. “Easiest place to start would be the Cave - see if the diadem is still there and in-tact. If it is, my money’s on physical wormhole. If it’s not, then…” 

Jason tilts his head back, brow pinching as he moans. “I hate time travel.” 

“You started it,” Tim responds, bracing his palms on his thighs as he climbs shakily to his feet. Jason swings upright with more surety, casting his gaze around at the dark smear of sky above them and the twinkle of stars not yet choked by Gotham’s pollution. 

“Still nighttime,” he reports. “That’s gotta be a bonus, right?” 

Tim’s not listening to him; his gaze is turned towards the drive, where a tinted sedan is idling. One window is cracked open, a small child standing attentively on the gravel. As Jason watches, a gloved hand slides an envelope through the gap to the child, before the car rolls away. 

“Who the hell is that?” Jason mutters. 

Tim squints. “I don’t know. But he’s- _ shit._” 

Jason grunts when Tim shoves him towards the nearest array of hedge animals, scrambling for cover as the child glances up from the pale envelope and starts heading towards the Manor doors. They crouch behind the foliage, watching his stiff, purposeful trek up the drive. There’s a familiarity to his gait, a formality with which he holds himself as he ascends the marble porch steps and braces before the threshold with a sharp inhalation. 

“Is that _ Damian_?” Jason hisses, and Tim elbows him in the ribs as he hushes him. Jason drops his tone to a low murmur. “No, I’m serious; that looks like Damian. Like, pre-Bruce, League child soldier extraordinaire Damian.” 

Tim assesses the small figure, who has paused on the steps, fingers clenching the envelope in what Jason can only imagine is trepidation. “He’s so _ young. _ What’s he doing?” 

“Uh,” Jason says with dawning horror. “I think I know what kind that diadem does.” 

Tim’s frown is evolving into a full-blown maelstrom on his brow. “It’s still June though.” 

“What?” 

“It’s June,” Tim repeats, leaning around the hedge squirrel to get a better view of the kid. “Late June, I’ll grant you that. But Damian didn’t arrive at the Manor until mid-July. I remember because he happened to derail my entire sixteenth birthday, actually.” 

Jason snorts. “Do you always hold grudges this long? You seemed to get over me trying to murder you fairly quickly.” 

“You’ve made it up to me in other ways,” Tim answers without missing a beat, and his gaze doesn’t shift from Damian. “I don’t get why he’s _ here,_ right _ now. _ That’s gotta be a glitch in the timeline, right? Did we cause this? With the diadem?” 

“This is _ exactly _ why I hate time travel.” 

“We wouldn’t _ be _ in a time travel situation if _ someone _ could keep their hands off the-” 

“Yeah, yeah, quit riding my ass. That’s my job. So, what? The kid’s a month early?” 

“Seems like it.” 

Jason sucks his teeth. “So… we delay him.” 

Tim’s gaze snaps to him, livid and mortified. “Absolutely not. That’s not how time travel works.” 

“Says the guy who didn’t know what a diadem that’s been in his basement for three years actually did until now.” 

Tim shoots him a ferocious glare, but Jason ignores it as he pushes to his feet. The smaller man’s scrambling to stop him in the next minute as Jason steps out from behind the hedge squirrel. 

Jason ignores his snarled order to retreat, waving a hand to catch the child’s attention. He does, the kid swivelling to face him atop the dais with blank expression. From this angle, he can definitely see Damian’s features in the moonlight, young though they may be. 

Jason slides a hand through the air again. “Hey!” 

Damian blinks. “Do you live here?” 

“No,” Jason answers, and then hastily amends to, “Yes! I live here. Can I help you?” 

Damian’s dark brows knit into a frown, and he starts towards the door again, fist raised to knock. Tim darts out from behind the hedge with a peal of hysterical laughter, digging an elbow into Jason’s side as he plants himself in Damian’s view. The kid pauses. 

“You’re a regular joker. _ I _ live here,” Tim offers with far more confidence, and then gestures to the Manor. “This is my home. What are you here for?” 

“I’m here to see somebody,” Damian replies, and lifts his palm again. 

“See who?” Tim interjects quickly, and rushes forward to ascend the steps. Jason doesn’t miss the way Damian tenses, gaze flickering over the pair of them when they’re finally all standing on the porch. 

“What are you doing, kid?” Jason asks, glancing down at the envelope in Damian’s palm. 

“I’m here to meet my father,” Damian informs him curtly. “I’ve been sent by my mother. I have a letter for him. I’m to stay with him until she returns for me.” 

Jason tries to hide his wince, and points a finger at the envelope. “Can I see that?” 

Damian’s frown deepens, and he tilts the card into his chest protectively. “No, I think not.” 

“Are you here to see Bruce Wayne?” Tim ventures, and Damian’s eyes light up. His features remain solemn as ever, however, as he nods once. “I know Bruce. I can give him that letter for you.” 

“Mother says I’m to hand him this letter directly,” Damian contradicts, “and wait until he gives me further instruction.” 

Jason mutters a curse over his shoulder; something about hyper-obedient child soldiers and neglectful parents. Then he gives Damian his best child-friendly smile. He’s not sure he gets it quite right. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, kiddo? Wouldn’t you rather get some ice cream? Or a chilli dog? You must be hungry, travelling all this way. You want us to grab you a snack, bud?” 

“I’m here to see my father,” Damian repeats, starting forwards for the door again. 

Jason rests his arm across the width of the door, affecting an almost-casual lean, if it weren’t for the manner in which his hand slams into the frame. Damian jolts and frowns up at him, a scowl darkening his features. 

“You don’t want to go in there,” Jason informs him. 

“Why not?” Damian demands warily. 

“No one’s home,” Tim answers, and Damian’s gaze travels to the smattering of lights gleaming from the upper storey windows. 

“No one’s home,” Damian repeats with immense dubiety, and Tim winces. 

“What he means,” Jason recovers with an easy, inviting smile, “is you’ve got the wrong house.” 

Damian’s frown deepens with genuine suspicion. “Is this not Wayne Manor? Home to Bruce Wayne?” 

“No. Well, yes. But he doesn’t live here.” 

“He doesn’t live here? Then where does he live?” 

“We’ll take you to him,” Tim chirps, and lays a hand on Damian’s shoulder to guide him down the steps. 

Damian breaks the contact with a sharp palm-fronting block. Then he glares up at Tim, chest swelling with hearty purpose. “I’m here to see my father. I have an objective, given to me by my mother. I will _ not _ be waylaid by the likes of you.” 

Tim’s next words are muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Even as a preteen you were an asshole.” 

“Pardon me?” Damian interjects with a flash of ire, and Tim shifts under the distraction. 

Tim moves, reaching out to slap a hand over Damian’s mouth just fast enough to curb the muffled screech of fury that erupts from his lips. He spins him with a firm tug on his shoulder, practically scooping him down the stairs when Jason grips his other arm and lifts. Damian kicks as his feet part with the marble, landing a good hit in on Jason’s thigh - hard enough that he hisses and winces at the blunt force - when they lift him to clear the stairs. 

“What _ exactly _ is the plan here?” Jason snarls as they rush across the grass, spitting child in tow. “I didn’t sign up for this.” 

“You picked him up too,” Tim points out, a tad breathlessly, and winces when Damian’s nails lacerate into the grip he has around Damian’s mouth. 

“I assumed you had a plan for what came _ after _ the kidnapping,” Jason growls, and draws to a halt when they reach the safety of the next row of hedges. He dumps Damian on his feet, spouting, “Okay, stop, stop-” 

“_Unhand me,_” Damian spits, jerking his head back from Tim’s palm with a flash of teeth. “I won’t be _ kidnapped _ by two _ oafs _ who-” 

Jason’s palm smothers half of Damian’s lower face, and all of his jaw. Damian gives a screech of disapproval, but the sound barely makes it out as Jason pins the kid back against his stomach, holding him in place as he fixes Tim with an exasperated look. 

“We need a plan. Or we need to put him back.” 

“We’re not putting him back there,” Tim hisses. “It’s not the right time. It’s not- This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to arrive for another _ month_-” 

“Then what are we going to do? Play keepaway for a whole month? I don’t- _ No,_” he stresses at Tim’s bright expression. “No, we’re not going to hot potato the kid around Gotham! Are you kidding me? We’re not even supposed to _ be _ in this timeline. We can’t be _ affecting _ it like that!” 

“We kind of already have,” Tim points out with a wince. Against Jason’s stomach, Damian starts doing his best interpretation of a weasel trying to wiggle its way out of a bramble patch. “Look, we just have to stash him at one of your safehouses. We’ll take care of him until we sort this time travel business out, or until July 19th comes - whichever’s first. We’ll just keep him entertained until then. Get him some action figures and colouring books or something.” 

Damian bleats in sharp protest at that suggestion, kicking out and landing a vicious heel-kick to Tim’s thigh. The man cants away with a hiss of pain, glaring. 

“We’re not waiting until July to fix this,” Jason returns sternly. “I’ve got shit to do back in our timeline. Crime doesn’t sleep, you know.” 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Tim retorts, massaging the muscle, but from the furrow of his brow, he’s deep in contemplation. Always has to have a solution, for every predicament. 

“Not to mention,” Jason continues, and bends to wrap an arm deftly around Damian’s waist, hauling him up until his feet clear the ground and curb his attempts to wriggle free. The kid’s nails scratch at Jason’s palm as he shouts fruitlessly. “What do we do when we run into our past selves?” 

“If,” Tim corrects absently as he chews at his nail, and Jason blinks, pausing. 

“Run that one past me again, Timbers?” 

“_If _ we run into our past selves,” Tim repeats. “You’re assuming they didn’t _ also _ get displaced.” 

“Displaced to where? Our future timeline?” Tim nods, and Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, okay. One step at a time, then. Let’s get the kid to a safehouse, and then we can look at handing him off to someone more capable while we switch back into our old - future? - timeline.” 

“Okay,” Tim concedes, nodding slowly. “Okay, we can do that. But we don’t leave until Damian is in safe hands, _ or _ we wait until July.” 

“I’m sure we can think of someone,” Jason scoffs, and jostles Damian when he drives a pointed elbow into the larger man’s spleen. “What could be so hard about babysitting a League-trained mini assassin?” 

* * *

“I don’t know about you,” Jason begins, and stoops to ratchet the cuff closed around Damian’s slim wrist. “But whenever _ I _ get a call about a kid being chained to a radiator, I’m usually responsible for getting them _ out _ of the handcuffs.” 

He slides back up to his full height as Damian snarls wordlessly, yanking on the unrelenting metal and glaring daggers. “Let me _ go,_” he insists with bared teeth, as he has every second minute for the past hour. 

Jason shakes his head. “No can-do, kiddo. Just think of it as a training exercise. No picks, no tools. Shouldn’t be a problem for an assassin-in-training.” 

“I’m not _ in-training_-” 

“That’s not going to hold him, you know,” Tim says without dragging his gaze up from the glowing laptop screen. His hands are moving furiously across the keyboard, and Jason’s pretty sure he hasn’t blinked since they arrived. 

He wanders over to where Tim’s scouring through files. He’d remotely hooked into the Batcomputer - “You haven’t changed your password in _ three years_?” - as soon as they’d gotten to the safehouse, and hasn’t looked up since, trawling incessantly through his and Bruce’s case notes from their acquisition of the diadem. 

Jason wraps a gloved hand around the back of the chair and leans over his shoulder to watch. “Are you live-chatting with Diana?” 

“She doesn’t know what kind of wormhole it makes,” Tim answers on autopilot, and Jason watches a string of messages slide up the screen as Tim replies. “Apparently Bruce and I only _ just _ secured the diadem in this timeline. Apparently, _ I’ve _ been pestering her for information for three hours now.” 

“Hmm,” Jason hums, and Tim glances up, curious. Jason shrugs at his arched brow. “I just don’t think it’s coincidental that we happened to be thrown back to the point in time in which you first came into contact with the diadem. That seems pretty significant to me, magical-voodoo-diadem-wise.” 

Tim frowns as he digests this. “Maybe. A wormhole stretching between two fixed points makes more sense than a random temporal shift. I don’t know what that means for getting us back to our timeline though. It could have been a one-time thing; creating the wormhole could have destroyed the diadem. No way of knowing until we check the Cave, I guess.” 

“What’s the point of being a massive Star Trek nerd if you can’t even figure out _ one _ little flaw in the space-time continuum-” 

“It think this is a little more complex than an episode of _ Star Trek, _ Jason-” 

“And Star Wars! I’m revoking your geek card effectively imme-” 

“_Star Wars doesn’t even have time travel-_” 

“If you’re intending to ransom me to extract a fee from my father,” Damian spits, his tone sharp and crisp, drawing them up short, “then I demand the right to face you in single combat. I will not sit idly by and submit myself to this charade. You _ will _ regret scorning the heir to the Demon’s Head, the blood of Ra’s al Gh-” 

“Hey, kid,” Jason snaps, twisting to glare at Damian where he’s risen to a high kneel, expression fierce. “Remember how you slept with a stuffed rabbit until you were six?” 

The blood drains from Damian’s features, his entire form stilling as Jason arches a knowing brow. Tim snorts obnoxiously, folding over his laptop as he cackles. 

“He seriously did that?” 

Jason turns back to the laptop, his point made when Damian settles back to sitting on his heels with a murderous but disconcerted scowl. “I was with the League for a while, remember? It was actually a super cute bunny though. Not as cute as training-wheels over here, but a close second.” 

“I’m _ not-_” 

Jason doesn’t even look up, just raises his voice to ask, “Was it called Mister Snugglebuns or Mister Twitchynose? Lazarus juice was pretty potent around that time; my memories can be a bit scrambled. Be a good little assassin and remind me?” 

Damian pouts, but settles back against the radiator, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. Jason nods firmly, and reaches over the keyboard to snag his helmet, ignoring Tim’s bleat of frustration as he ducks to read the screen. 

“So we need to get our hands on that diadem before we can work out exactly what happened?” Jason confirms, and Tim grunts in affirmation. He settles the helmet over his head, engaging the locks with a hiss. The sound makes Tim glance up, confusion painting his features when Jason crosses to the window and swing a leg over the sill. 

“Where are you going?” 

Jason pauses with one foot on the fire escape, shrugging as he sits in his straddle. “You said the diadem should be in the Cave. I’m gonna steal it.” 

“You’re going to steal-” Tim pauses to choke on his spit, and Jason scoffs. 

“We’re not going to get anywhere just sitting around here. I’m a man of action; I’m gonna get us that diadem.” 

“Oh yeah, because you getting your hands all over it worked _ so well _ the first time around,” Tim sneers, and Jason lays a hand over his chest. 

“I’m wounded. Here I am, trying to fix our circumstances, and all I get is criticism.” 

Tim snaps the laptop closed with a hum of agreement, rising to join him on the fire escape. “You’re not going to get into the Cave by yourself. Who even knows if your passcode still works. And you can’t be trusted alone in there.” 

“_Wounded,_” Jason repeats, flashing a smile behind the visor. 

Damian’s been watching them with growing apprehension, but it blows into red-faced fury when Tim steps out of the open window. “You can’t just _ leave _ me here.” 

“Can, will, want to, and are,” Jason replies mildly, to vocal frustration, and swings his leg off the sill. 

“I am _ Damian al Ghul, _ heir to the League of-” 

Tim reaches over and tugs the window closed with a roll of his eyes, cutting off the irate shouts within. Jason smirks and admires him. “Working out some latent aggression there, Timbers?” 

“I can’t believe I forgot how much of an asshole he was _ before _ Bruce straightened him out,” Tim says as he ascends the steps, Jason on his heels. 

They hit the rooftops, skipping across Crime Alley as they head for the bridge that leads back to Wayne Manor. Tim keeps up a steady jog in front, Jason falling easily in behind him with his longer strides. He’s just beginning to muse on how well they fit together as a team, how familiar this is starting to feel, how far they’ve come in three years, the strides they’ve made together - when a flash of blue catches Jason’s eye. 

“Hood!” someone bellows, and then Jason’s being slammed into the brick wall. 

He braces with a wheezing grunt, fingers wrapping over the hand that fists in his armour, and snarls, “What the _ shit? _” 

“Robin,” Dick bleats, brow pinching in equal parts concern and relief when he glances to where Tim’s stopped, frozen on the rooftop. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” 

“Right,” Jason mutters, “I’m still Hood now. How’s my criminal enterprise going?” 

Dick knocks his feet out from under him with a swift sweep, and Jason hits the pavement with another heave and a groaned complaint. “You’re not getting away this time, Hood. I won’t stand idly by and let you target Robin while I’m here. This stops _ now_.” 

Jason drags himself back up to his feet with an exaggerated wince, gloves digging into the mortar as he steadies himself. “Christ, Wing, you’d think I was holding a knife to his neck or something.” 

Dick wraps a hand in his jacket and pins him to the wall with a blistering glower. “You think you’re funny, punk? Gotham is in _ chaos _ because of you, and all you can think to do is make _ jokes_?” 

“Am I stealing your thunder, Boy Wonder?” Jason taunts, and Dick growls, shoving him deeper into the brick. 

“Woah, hey, Dick, it’s okay,” Tim entreats, reaching to touch Dick’s shoulder as he tries to press between the pair of them. 

He rolls off the touch with a glare. “It’s alright, _ Robin,_” he stresses, and Jason snickers at his strict adherence to the no-names protocol. Always the boy scout when it comes to Bruce’s rules. “I’ve signalled Batman. He’ll be here soon, and together we’ll take Hood to the proper authorities. You did great,” he adds, features softening a little, as if he’s remembering himself. “Really good for your first solo run. Great job.” 

Tim drags a hand down his face. “Solo run. Yup. Okay. Thanks, Wing.” 

Jason gives Tim his best shit-eating grin, aware that the man can see it even from behind the helmet. “Great job, Robin. First solo mission, look at you! Wearing the big boy scaly panties now. Apparently you haven’t changed much.” 

“It’s been three years,” Tim protests incredulously. 

“You’re still the same height though,” Jason interjects, “which probably threw him off.” 

Tim elbows him in the ribs, and Jason chokes on a laugh. “I’m _ taller._” 

“Barely.” 

Tim hesitates. “Do you think past-you is trying to kill me?” 

Jason pauses, brow pinching. “Maybe. I certainly wouldn’t put it past me. What age am I?” 

“Apparently I’m almost sixteen,” Tim answers, turning back to Jason. “Which would put you at-” 

“Eighteen,” Jason answers with a flood of chilled fear. “Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t put it past me then. Eighteen, new sightings of the Hood in Gotham - I’d say we’re just about at the point where I give you that pretty neck scar, Timbers.” 

“Neck scar?” Dick bleats, grip tensing where it’s wrapped in Jason’s jacket. 

“Perfect,” Tim chirps with a flash of horror. “So we’ve just got to fix this before past-you succeeds in murdering past-me. No pressure.” 

“Still on the waiting-till-July train?” 

Tim scowls. “We could leave Damian with Dick.” 

“Who’s Damian?” Dick demands with an edge of suspicion. 

“No,” Jason answers, bypassing him entirely. “They’d get on _ famously. _ Damian would never go back to Bruce. Not a chance in hell. You’re just gonna have to let the timeline rupture, babybird. Heck, maybe this is the sort of multiverse scenario where the timeline mends itself.” 

“Or it’s the kind where we never get back to our timeline, and then future-past-you kills future-past-me and we cease to exist,” Tim says, nose scrunching as he pauses to digest that. “Okay, yeah, I really hate time travel too.” 

“Is anyone going to clue me in here?” Dick asks, and Jason claps him on the shoulder with enough force to send him staggering, his grip breaking from the jacket. 

“Nothing to worry about, Wing,” he purrs, ducking around him and starting for the edge of the rooftop, a plan already brewing in his mind’s eye. 

“Who _ are _ you?” Dick demands, upstarting. He shifts in front of Tim, reaching for his escrima. “How do you know Tim?” 

“Oh, trust me, Tim and I go _ way _ back,” Jason says cryptically, and has to bite his lip to stop the laugh that bubbles in his throat at Dick’s bewilderment. He yanks a grapnel from his belt, aiming it at some sturdy brick a few buildings over and firing. 

Tim glares, starting after him, and finds himself stopped by Dick’s protective lean. “Where are you going?” 

“Going to ask a pair of lesbians if they’re looking to adopt,” Jason replies with a jaunty salute. “I think Damian and Ivy would really bond over toxicology and environmentalism, don’t you, Robin?” 

“J- Hood, you _ jerk,_ don’t you dare ditch me-” 

Jason thrusts his arm out in a threatening point, affecting his best Big-Bad-Red-Hood voice. The modulators help mask how much he wants to laugh. “This isn’t the end of this, _ Robin. _ Gotham’s _ mine! _ Tell the Bat to watch his back. I’ll be seeing you ‘round.” 

Tim nearly rolls his eyes at the performance, but Jason gets the last word when he leaps backwards and yells, “At least you didn't name yourself Drake!” 

The wind tears away the best evil cackle he’s ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves a pretty magical diadem. 
> 
> This was heaps of fun to write! Time travel is definitely not my strong suit, but I think this was a great, light-hearted way to kick off the Giveaway. And it would be interesting to come back to in the future, to smooth out some of the time wrinkles with more shenanigans. Food for thought!


	3. You Don’t Raise Heroes, You Raise Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** General Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** Gen 
> 
> **Relationship:** Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Duke Thomas & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne 
> 
> **Characters:** Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain, Damian Wayne, Barbara Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Bruce Wayne Is Batman, Bruce Wayne’s (Genuinely) A+ Parenting, Parenthood, Family Fluff 
> 
> **Words:** 2585 
> 
> **Summary:** Sometimes being a parent means doing things with no expectation of thanks. Bruce doesn't mind.

_ “You don’t raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they’ll turn out to be heroes, even if it’s just in your own eyes.” ― Walter M. Schirra, Sr. _

* * *

“I want eyes sharp and comms up. Tonight, communication is key. I want to know what’s going down in every square inch of this city, is that understood?” 

A chorus of assent greets Bruce from the assembled vigilantes. He shifts to direct two fingers westward, towards the Diamond District. 

“I want Spoiler and Red Robin to take the Upper West Side, cut down through Chinatown and veer south.” The two nod; Red Robin twists in his cowl to slide his gaze over the jagged skyline, already mapping a route through the rooftops. “Nightwing and Robin will cover the Diamond and Fashion Districts.” 

“What about us?” Red Hood asks, tone muffled by his voice modulators as he crooks a thumb at Batgirl and Signal behind him. 

“You’ll handle Old Gotham and meet Spoiler and Red Robin in Chinatown. Signal will cover the Financial District and provide backup for Nightwing and Robin if needed.” 

Bruce swivels to point in the opposite direction, to where Robinson Park sprawls, a verdant oasis in the middle of the concrete city. “Batgirl will cut through Robinson Park to handle University District, the Water District, and the surrounding suburbs.” 

“What about Tricorner?” Red Robin interjects. 

“You, Spoiler and Hood will meet in Chinatown and proceed northwest through Tricorner Yards together. Do _ not _ proceed alone. I don’t want anyone caught unawares tonight. Stay with your partners. Report _ any _ suspicious activity. If in doubt, call for backup and hang back until it arrives. Closest available is first responder, is that clear?” 

“Yes, sir,” the chorus confirms. 

“The targets are a series of devices littered through the city,” Bruce explains, mind flickering to the images he had disseminated back at the Batcave, when they’d all been gathered around the conference table in various states of dress. “They are approximately half a foot in height, and resemble pyramids. They are silver, reflective, and tactile in nature; they are activated by touch, so do not approach them. We are not yet certain what their origin is, but our objective is to contain them until we know more.” 

“What do you want us to do, B?” Nightwing asks in a focused, level tone. He always falls into the natural role of second-in-command whenever they team up in larger numbers like this. 

Bruce travels to the edge of the rooftop. “Locate them. Tag them. Call them in to the comms, so we can graph a comprehensive map; we may even be able to discern a pattern based on their locations. Once they’ve been called in, secure the perimeter to reduce civilian interference. Don’t leave the scene until you are assured they will not be tampered with. Then proceed until you locate the next. I don’t want a single device excluded from our search.” 

“We will ensure we canvas the entire city, father,” Robin asserts from within the shadow of his hood, and then glances up at Nightwing. “Nightwing, shall we?” 

“Right behind you, little D,” the taller man confirms as the teen fires a grapnel line, flashing them all a blinding smile as he flips back off the building. 

“See you at Tricorner,” Spoiler offers Hood from beneath her face mask, tailing Red Robin as they head for the vantage point of a taller building. He salutes, and then heads for the low-lying brownstones of Old Gotham. 

Signal’s not far behind, launching towards the glitter of Gotham’s elite districts. It’s Batgirl who lingers, the blacked out lenses of her mask scrutinising Bruce. He tries to remain impassive, keeping his posture deliberately neutral as she reads him. Whatever she sees must satisfy her suspicions, because she leaps from the rooftop with the barest rustle of fabric after a long minute, and Bruce lets out an exhale, pointing himself towards Gotham’s northern slums. 

He’s sure Alfred will have something to say about his methods, splitting his children across the city to maximise their sweep for the devices. At least they’re paired, and he knows they’re more than equipped to handle any surprises the night might have to offer - he’s made sure of it over the years. 

His trek through Crime Alley is unmarked by any signs of silver devices, but he didn’t expect to find any this far north. He intends to be thorough, cover all the intended localities amongst the Narrows and Otisburg before he regroups with everyone back at the manor. 

Bruce is crouched on the sill of a window, deftly disabling the pattern security lock, when the first call comes through the comm. 

“Device located on East and Twentieth,” Red Robin declares. “Spoiler’s setting up a perimeter, and I’ve marked it on the map.” 

“Good work,” Bruce rumbles down the line, ducking into the apartment when the security bleats its compliance, and disengages the secondary locks. The old floorboards creak under his weight as Bruce crosses the floor to the second bedroom, searching for a particular piece of furniture. 

He passes shelves of worn old books before he spots the latched, repurposed armoire, and beelines for it. Snaking his hand beneath the hardwood base, Bruce flicks open the false floor and presses down on the switch, watching as the secondary closet - built into another false back in the armoire, stashed within a void between two rooms - yawns wide. 

He smiles to himself, unhooking one of the grapnels from its peg within, and turning it over in his palm. Mentally notes the scrapes in the metal, tests the grip of the handle and the firing mechanism. Jason builds most of his own weapons, always too independent and self-sufficient to accept the tools that Bruce offers. And he knows his second eldest is more than capable enough to construct his own array of gadgets - but that doesn’t stop him worrying about his safety. 

With his time divided between maintaining order in the Narrows under the just fist of a crime lord, and maintaining his patrol route with the rest of them, Bruce knows Jason doesn’t have much time to spare to dedicate to maintaining his tools. Just because he can’t or won’t ask for Bruce’s help doesn’t mean he won’t provide it, and Bruce is more than happy to give it, even if Jason never has to know. 

He does a quick sweep of the closet, inspecting each tool - tightening bolts, replacing overused spearhooks, and checking the tension on the cables - before replacing each with meticulous care, and closing up shop. By the time he reactivates the security system, two more devices have been called in, and Bruce crosses them off against his mental tally as he skips over to the sturdier streets of Otisburg. 

Stephanie’s apartment is less rigorously maintained than Jason’s, 

Bruce reaches for the rosy-cheeked matryoshka doll on the third shelf, working through the layers until he finds the crumpled roll of fifties stashed within. He adds another three of his own before reassembling it and returning it to its nesting spot. 

There’s a stack of unmarked twenties sitting in the bottom of a raisin cookies tin at the back of the pantry, and Bruce carefully slides a handful more into the thinnest stack. The lid snaps on with a soft pop, and Bruce manoeuvres it carefully back into the corner of its shelf before starting for the bedroom. 

Stephanie has always been particular about receiving money. Any bank transfers are rejected and refunded by the next business day, and any sight of Bruce’s American Express card has her up in arms about free handouts and paternal figures. 

He suspects she learnt her money-stashing habits from her father. She always has been far more perceptive than anyone’s ever given her credit for; it’s no wonder the daughter of the Cluemaster is a master of hiding things in plain sight. 

Bruce adds a final couple of hundreds to the purse in the hope chest at the foot of Stephanie’s bed, replacing the linen over the purple satin bag before he latches it closed and retreats back out the window. 

“Think I’m almost finished with the Financial District,” Signal informs them down the comms when Bruce shimmies down through a displaced skylight into the pokey studio apartment nestled in the Narrows. “Four located here. Nightwing and Robin, do you need reinforcements?” 

Bruce lifts a gloved finger to activate his muted comm as he heads into the tiled bathroom. “Head north and intercept Batgirl in the Water District. You can provide overhead assistance.” 

“Do you want me to go further north?” Signal asks. “I could look into Burnley if you want backup-” 

“No,” Bruce says, short and firm. “I have the north covered. Regroup with Batgirl.” 

Signal pauses for the barest moment before agreeing, and Bruce crouches before the bathroom vanity to pull out the first aid kit within. 

It’s a comprehensive, three-tiered affair, but surprisingly sparse of a few supplies. As much as Bruce is awed by Duke’s exceptional abilities, he too often forgets his metahuman son is just as prone to the occupational scrapes and bruises as the rest of them. Bruce withdraws some gauze and anti-inflammatory medication from his own belt pouches, padding out the stores until the kit is brimming. Then he slides it back into the cabinet and retraces his path back out through the skylight. 

The penthouse’s security is harder to hack, and Bruce frets on the threshold of the apartment, counting down the seconds before the tech disengages the latches and grants him unregistered access. He has his own personal passcode for the building, but he’d rather not leave any electronic fingerprints for Barbara or his most tech-savvy child to recover. 

His children are collectively up to a total of sixteen devices uncovered, and Bruce spares a glance at the piecemeal map they've constructed, measuring it against his own mental mud-map. Notes the three in the City Hall District, the two in University District in Batgirl’s direct path, and the eight in the yet-untouched Tricorner Yards. His children are more adept than he expected; he’ll need to move quickly to finish his rounds before heading back to the Manor. 

Bruce sweeps through the door when it unlatches, pauses for the barest moment beneath the unblinking eye of a camera. But tonight is one of the rare (and perhaps only) nights that Barbara isn't manning surveillance. She’ll be keeping one eye on the proceedings from her portable desktop, he’s certain, because once a Bat always a Bat - but Bruce knows he can breathe easy in the certainty that he has no all-seeing eye hanging over him this evening. When it doesn’t acknowledge his intrusion, he scurries through the screen-lit apartment to the kitchen, dropping his duffel to the tile. 

He’d stopped in at one of his old stash spots - back from his patrol days with Dick, one he hasn’t had cause to use in many years - to retrieve the supplies from the back cooler of one of Gotham’s oldest family-run butchers. Now he unzips the duffel with rigorous efficiency, aware of his time constraints as Hood announces his heading toward Tricorner on the comms. 

He crouches to open the refrigerator door and tug out the freezer drawer, transferring the neatly portioned containers of leftover lasagne and casserole and whatever other dishes Alfred had been shrewd enough to set aside from his bag. The handful of tupperware left in the bottom of the drawer tells Bruce how low Tim’s running on supplies, and a quick glance over at the desktop littered with empty takeout containers confirms his suspicions that he’s overworking himself again. 

Parenting has tested a lot of Bruce’s principles, and taught him the patience to overlook what he cannot change. Tim’s inconsistent sleep schedule and caffeine addiction are unstoppable at this point, and try as he might to curb him (replacing the decaf in his personal espresso stash, and removing the batteries from his alarm clock) Bruce has come to accept that Tim’s determination is the most untameable force of his nature. Bruce has learnt to be content in helping where he can, supplementing Tim’s mismanaged diet, and offering him as many reprieves as he can. 

Bruce has had much the same approach to Dick’s lifestyle. He’d spent the early afternoon visiting his eldest’s Bludhaven nest, tidying up the outfits strewn across his floorboards, a mismatch of Nightwing and BPD blues. Mending the spandex had taken the better part of an hour, passing needle and thread through gashes and holes from knives and bullets alike. Bruce tries not to think about just how many he had counted, just how many souvenirs Dick carries from his decades as Bruce’s prodigy. 

When Bruce heads back to the Manor, the sun’s golden fingers are curling over Gotham’s skyline. His children have recovered and disabled the devices, returning their shells to the Cave for Bruce to further analyse. He’ll have to construct some believable scheme to pique his team’s interests, something briefly intriguing that can be quickly discarded once a genuine threat shows itself. Bruce’s involvement, much like the devices, will be discarded and thought of no further. 

There’s a pile of children sprawled across every available surface in the theater room, the last lines of _ The Empire Strikes Back _ mumbling through the speakers. Bruce smiles, shucking his cowl as he moves into the room on silent feet. 

Dick and Jason are sprawled across the larger lounge, mouths askew and snores littering the air. Tim is curled into a ball at their feet, cheek half-propped up on his fist where it rests against the seat, a string of drool making a slow trek from the corner of his lips. 

Bruce shuffles Cassandra’s small, lithe frame into his arm, acknowledging when she wraps her fists into the material of his cape where it bunches at his collarbone. Damian stirs when he pulls him up onto his hip, head lolling against his shoulder. Neither wakes when he returns them to their rooms, tucking them into bed. He pauses to ruffle Titus’ ears when he curls up behind Damian’s crooked knees on the comforter, his huge head resting on his paws, and retreats downstairs. 

He trudges past the kitchen, where a stack of black-charred pots litters the overburdened sink. The dining table is still set, though the candles have long since burned down the wick, and only a single plate of cold pasta sits unattended next to a card. 

Bruce pauses to lift it, admiring the watercolour strokes of Damian’s latest study of flowers - a delicate rendition of an ambrosia stem, and a satin red ribbon. There’s a handful of messages inside, in varying penmanship that his mind identifies and dissects immediately. They’re clustered around a larger font, its message bold and unmistakable. 

He smiles, wraps a mouthful of pasta around the twines of his fork and scoops up the cold plate as he chews, returning it to the kitchen. 

The desk light is on in his study, and Bruce manoeuvres deftly over to it on muscle memory, the fatigue of a long and arduous night settling into his limbs. He hums, sets the card on his writing desk, and retrieves the lavender envelope he’d left in the holder. Then he shuts off the lamp, and heads down to the servant’s wing. 

The older man is darning one of Bruce’s sweaters with methodical fluency when he raps his knuckles against the ajar door, pushing inside. 

“Hello, Alfred,” he greets, crossing the threshold when the butler looks up, and offers him the envelope. He sets his work aside and takes it graciously as Bruce stoops to embrace him. “Happy Father’s Day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some soft BatDad for everybody! 
> 
> As you've probably guessed, I don't get to write a lot of domestic fluff, but this one was so fulfilling. Every now and again, you just need some wholesome content. So thanks to the Prompter for pushing me outside my usual angst-driven comfort zone. <3 
> 
> And for extra brownie points, Damian - much like Bruce - is highly trained in the League art of conveying messages through flower symbolism ;)


	4. Tactician's Ancilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Jason Todd, Janet Drake, Roy Harper, Tim Drake 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Dystopia, Rebellion/Resistance, Computer Programming, Hacking 
> 
> **Words:** 4884 
> 
> **Summary:** In the near future, synthetic humans called replicants are grown, fitted with customisable personality programming, and sold for labour. A small insurgent collective known as The Resistance rescues enslaved replicants, providing them with new identities and reassimilating them into society under the guise of being natural-born humans. That is, until Drake Industries reveals their latest creation.

“Do I get to keep the jewelry too?” Jason drawls, nodding towards his shackled ankle. 

Janet Drake doesn’t flinch, her expression stony. Jason can’t help but wonder if she’s even capable of any emotion other than stoic rebuke. 

“The locator stays,” she says firmly, and then her tone smooths out. “Insurance policy. I’m sure you can sympathize.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Jason replies, and bends to inspect the device. Partly because he wants to know if there’s any sort of interface Roy will be able to get his tools into the second Jason’s free of this charade, and partly because he knows Drake won’t appreciate the blatant disregard for protocol. 

She accepts his derision with a stiff exhale. “My generosity comes at a price.” 

“What doesn’t, these days?” Jason interrupts, affecting the sort of disbelieving tone he’s heard on holovids of old comedy sketches. The kind that didn’t have to engineer laugh tracks. 

Drake seems less than thrilled at his dismissiveness. “If you’re disinclined to afford this interview the respect it warrants, I will just as happily arrange your deportation back to that penal colony post haste.” 

Jason straightens in his seat, the humour long gone. And isn’t that just a myriad of things Jason loathes about Upper Ring residents. Her clipped, pointed tone. Her flaunt of sophisticated vocabulary, as if a gutter-sucking criminal like Jason doesn’t understand proper fucking English. And that’s before he even starts to address the thinly veiled threat underscoring it all. 

“Look, darlin’,” Jason drawls, hitching an arm over the back of the seat and kicking his knees wide open. Making himself broader, reminding her that he’s a _ threat _ in and of himself. No pretty words needed. “_You’re _ the one who bundled me up and shipped me off New Arkham. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but that's an awful lot of trouble to go to, just to employ someone like me. Especially when you’ve got a city full of cops who’ll gratefully skip to Drake Industries’ marching drum. Which means you went to all this trouble specifically to access _ my _ skill set. So I think I’m sitting pretty, right about now.” 

Janet Drake leans back in her chair, palms flat to the desk in a way that reminds Jason only of CEOs and wardens. Jason can practically see the gears shifting, minute and precise in the clockwork of her mind as she changes tack. “What do you want to get out of this?” 

Jason thinks about the nondescript, threadbare clothing he’d been bundled into when they’d yanked him onto a transport vessel heading out of the New Arkham prison complex, the sort of clothing you see on the bodies that wash up in Gotham River with a mafia branding on their necks. Jason thinks about his bare wrists, about the sort of jurisdictional suspensions offered to marshalls hunting escaped convicts across the star system. Jason thinks about his friends, and all the pockets of illegality stashed within this city, all bearing signs of his involvement. Jason thinks about how easy it would be for him to disappear, churned between the unyielding cogs of the Drake Family Enterprises Group at the whim of one Janet Drake, matriarch to it all. 

“I want to get out of this alive,” Jason answers honestly, lifting his chin. “But not if it’s just going to have me running for my life afterwards.” 

She takes that in stride. “Then let’s incentivise you. I won’t report you to the system’s penal executors, in exchange for you taking on my case. When you successfully complete the assignment, I’ll transfer you the sum of your payment.” 

“My payment,” Jason repeats incredulously. 

“Thirty thousand credits.” 

That’s a lot of money. “I’m not interested in money.” 

“Clipped and deposited directly into the account of your choosing.” 

That’s a fuckin’ lot of money. “You’re not listening, darl-” 

“Think of all the good that sort of liquid cash could do for the Resistance movement,” she purrs with a mouthful of pointed, knowing teeth, and for the first time since Jason sat down, he finally has a reference point for Janet Drake’s unfortunate nickname. The Dragon Lady smiles at him slowly, watching as he rigorously shoves down any outward reaction to that suggestion, to that _ implication, _ that he’s buried deeper in the Resistance than any former law official has right to be. 

He considers lying. Considers laughing. Considers getting angry, or indignant, or any number of hollow reactions that would shake the foundations of that connection, bury them deeper in the smog of Gotham. Conceal his friends, his accomplices, deeper in the mires of Jason’s muggier past. Jason doesn’t want to know what sort of suspicions Janet Drake has about his involvement. Doesn’t want to see what sort of resources she has at her disposal. Doesn’t want to see how far she’s willing to go to get what she wants, when Jason has so much he can lose. 

In the end, Jason nods. 

That seems to be enough for her, because she visibly settles, contented in a way that only a woman at the helm of some great business merger could be. Like this is transactional. Like Jason _ chose _ this pact he finds himself in. 

“What’s the assignment?” Jason asks, and if his tone is the barest bit bitter, she’ll have to forgive him. 

“Retrieval,” she answers, “of a significant piece of intellectual property belonging to Drake Industries. One that was removed from our data banks illegally.” 

“You lost a bot,” Jason translates with the barest amount of incredulity. 

Drake Industries is the premier corporation on the forefront of replicant technology. The cornerstone of the replicant industry, churning out more new models of lifelike androids per year than any of their competitors could hope to dream of. Their grasp on the market is as well-earned as it is formidable; their hardware, much like their signature software, is second to none. 

Janet Drake takes his assessment with a thin, sharp smile. “Crude, under the circumstances, but not wholly inaccurate. A program, specifically. A collection of them, actually. One that has been several months in the making, and is the product of some of the greatest minds in this galaxy.” 

“You lost-” Jason repeats, and amends at the flash of irritation on her features. No point pissing off his pseudo-employer so early in the game. “-you _ misplaced _ an application? Or an entire operating system?” 

Drake doesn’t answer, but she does glance down to shuffle the tablet on the desk in front of her, straightening the edge parallel with her coaster. Jason feels his throat dry at the tell. 

“How big?” he asks. 

“Big,” she answers mildly, lips curling in ironic amusement. No doubt at his incongruous choice of adjective. 

Jason leans back in his chair, digesting her tone. “How complex?” 

“Have you seen the derivations of Fomalhaut?” she asks, and Jason frowns, but nods. Drake leans forward onto her clasped wrists. “It makes a ternary star system look rustic.” 

That’s pre-eminent tech. Top-of-the-line, cutting edge, vanguard mechanisation. The sort of application that would make the entirety of the Gotham replicant databasing system look on par with a jumped up toaster appliance. 

That sort of tech is worth _ millions, _ and Drake is staring at him bare-faced with an offer of a meagre thirty thousand credits. Jason’s pretty sure his payout wouldn’t even buy a seat at the investors table for this singular anthology of code. He’s been around a few gambling dens in his short lifetime, but a poker face this flawless deserves to be immortalised in artistry. 

That tech is also worth several lives. Of that Jason has absolutely no qualms. He wouldn’t even be surprised if some people have already died in the name of preserving this tech, depending on how foreboding its conception was. More prominent names than his have probably been eliminated in the course of standard Drake Industries research and development; Jason has no intention of adding his to the list. 

“So you want it found,” Jason entreats, and continues when she doesn’t contradict him. “And retrieved.” 

“Quietly,” Drake clarifies. “Professionally. Assiduously. A certain level of conscientiousness a man like yourself is in possession of would not go astray.” 

Jason doesn’t take the compliment. “What’s the timeframe?” 

“As soon as possible,” Drake answers. 

“What’s the timeframe,” Jason repeats, this time with a sterner edge to his tone. 

Drake smiles, her amusement approving. “If the next seventy-two hours wouldn’t be too difficult?” When Jason’s brows shoot up, entirely of their own accord, she amends to, “If not, I can stand to be parted from it for one hundred and twenty.” 

“You want me to locate and recover a piece of tech _ your _ security personnel couldn’t catch a whiff off in six days?” Jason demands, too shocked to inject a deserving level of cynicism into his tone. 

Drake’s expression is fastidiously uncompromising. “If it’s not too much of an imposition.” 

* * *

It hadn’t actually taken all that many resources to find where the program had been embedded. The thieves who had smuggled it out of Drake Industries had had passcards and identification; now-former employees, as Jason had suspected. Apparently, exactly twelve miles beyond the shadow of the DI corporate plant, they’d gotten cold feet and shucked the drive onto the nearest dealer. 

_ That _ thief had at least been a little more aware of exactly what he’d gotten his hands on, but either too careless or too underequipped to shield the program from an invasive locator subprogram. Roy had pinged the tech a little under an hour after Jason had ambled into his apartment, and the program had gone dark the instant it’d recognised a foreign subprogram, as the secondary thief had programmed it to do. 

Jason and Roy weren’t expecting to be able to ping the program directly. But when it went dark, it had done what all good above-board high-tech programs were designed to do, and yanked its connection from its host server to recede into total anonymity. _ That _ server had broadcasted its location like a beacon on a bay, and Jason had taken exactly enough time as he’d needed to arm himself before they’d headed over to kick in the thief’s door. 

“So what’s the hold up?” Jason mutters from his perch on the dining table. It can barely be considered furniture; just a few pallet crates stacked awkwardly in front of a deconstructed television set. Jason gets the impression Roy would be at home in a shithole like this, no one to pester him while he tinkers. 

Roy leans around the console he’s tucked against long enough to fling a screwdriver in Jason’s direction. “Make yourself useful and start working on that jewelry of yours.” 

Jason snatches it out of the air, but sets it down shortly after, casting his gaze about. Now that his senses have stopped reeling over the horrific pigsty this guy calls an apartment, his enhancements are able to start discerning features from the clutter. 

“Think this guy had a fetish of some sort?” Jason asks, cataloguing the fifth retrofitted central processing unit tucked away on a shelf. “Got enough CPUs to jog a fucking warehouse in here.” 

“Microprocessors or macros?” Roy asks with distracted interest. Jason rises to inspect the nearest, turning it over in his palm. 

“Micros, from the look of it,” Jason answers, and Roy grunts in dismay. Non-salvageable then. A sheen of pale blue-and-white catches Jason’s eye from the corner, sequestered behind a stack of cheap knock-off carbon-vinyls that reaches to Jason’s hip. 

He approaches, letting his enhancements calibrate to the gloom, and then he snorts. “_That’s _ definitely a fetish.” 

“What is?” 

Jason crouches down to his heels, reaching out a crooked finger to trace the cold, impassive cheek of the dormant android. Then he turns back to grin at Roy. “Found you a fleshlight to match that arm you’ve got.” 

Roy lifts the middle finger of his cybernetic arm in a jaunty salute. Jason snickers, shoving the stack aside to get a better look at the replicant tech. It’s surprisingly in-tact, and not that old of a model, going by the soft, angular features and the perpetual hairstyle the droid’s been saddled with. A few seasons out of fashion, but within a few years of manufacture. Would fetch a handsome price at the chop shop. Jason says as much aloud. 

Roy grunts noncommittally and squints at his screen, the clatter of the retro keyboard filling the silent apartment. “Depends if its personality program is compatible. This bastard could’ve bricked it. Or uploaded some kink-specific shit on there.” 

“Looks intact to me,” Jason reports, letting his hand slide to the base of its skull, fumbling for the manual activation button there. He holds it, and the charging port lights up, but its face remains blank, its eyes black and empty. “Well, it boots,” Jason reports, “but it’s hollow tech, from the looks of it.” 

“Fuck,” Roy says with feeling, and Jason jerks his head around, on instant alert. He crosses the room in a few short strides to where Roy’s glaring a storm at the console screen. 

“What’s up?” 

“Dragon Lady’s smarter than she looks, apparently. She’s already got sniffers prowling any servers in a fifty block radius. They’re on bastard’s tech too.” 

“What’s that mean for us?” Jason asks, already laying the mental foundations for three contingency plans. 

“Means I can’t straight extract the program without tripping over one of her techies. They’ll flag an extraction that size in a heartbeat.” 

“Can’t compress it?” Jason checks, and Roy fixes him with a withering look. Jason had suspected as much. But he wasn’t about to just hand Drake’s program back over to her on a silver platter; call it a hunch, but Jason reckons he can extort a much prettier payday for the Resistance with a ransom than a severance package. “Okay, where else can we shove this program?” 

Roy shrugs helplessly, trawling the server’s security feed in one window. “It’s the file size. No one extracts anything that big or complex. It’s DI tech; it’s practically its own ecosystem packaged on a neat little thumb drive. The second something like that passes through the outgoing server gateway, we’re going to have DI security crawling down our throats.” 

“Okay,” Jason says. “Any other options for transfer? Dump it on a clean drive, or a portable, or-?” 

Roy’s already shaking his head. “You move that thing to anything smaller than a console and it’s going to flag. It’s going to need to ping the server for at least three minutes to transfer out. They’ll have ample time to identify it.” 

“Okay. What about we take the console?” 

“As soon as we ditch the server, the program’s going to lock itself down. It needs a host in proximity.” 

“A portable host that’s not drive-sized,” Jason says with a downturn of his lips. 

“A portable host that’s not drive-sized and wouldn’t be out of place swallowing down a burger of code the size of Upper Gotham,” Roy clarifies. 

Jason hums and nods, casting his gaze around at the junkyard of half-dismantled tech as he transverses the room. Then he pauses and glances down at the dormant replicant. 

“How big are personality files?” Jason asks. 

Roy squints, then follows his gaze. “Oh shit, okay. Uh, slightly smaller, but the custom ones have been known to take up that many terabytes. It’ll flag as the DI tech if we straight transfer it over though. I’d need to wrap it in another personality file.” 

“Cannelloni style,” Jason interjects with a grin. “That’d work?” 

Roy shrugs, fingers already flying. “Don’t know, never tried it. The droid host should have some file storage. I’ll need to rip out a heap of the personality coding to make up the extra space, but it’s not like we need that thing to walk and talk, right?” 

Jason eyes it. “Doesn’t look too heavy.” 

“Then we can lose the base self coding. And the modified files can take a hike; sweet and simpering wasn’t really your flavour anyway, was it, Jay?” 

“I’ll take ‘em snarky any day of the week,” Jason retorts with a grin. 

“Oh, confrontation suppressors,” Roy reads aloud. “Yeah, think we can lose that. Anyone who’s willing to go toe to toe with you can stay.” 

“Is there even going to be any personality left in this thing by the time you’re done ripping its behavioural subroutines out?” Jason asks with fond bemusement. 

“Absolutely not,” Roy answers without a beat’s hesitation. “I’m _ gutting _this thing. It’s not even going to know its own name. It’s basically six core sub mods bundled on top of the DI tech. Without base-self coding, it’s not even going to boot. I just need it to look like an adorable, playful little babe, and then hold the file.” 

“Better make it a twink,” Jason answers, scanning the almost androgynous lines of the droid. “Definitely not female.” 

Roy laughs, and offers Jason a cable. “Hook it up for me? I’m gonna give our sniffers a herring to chase down.” 

He slides to one knee between the dormant replicant’s knees, reaching back to dock the cable beneath that unseeing, darkened gaze. The insert settles with a soft click, and Jason hears Roy’s grunt in gratitude, keys clacking in the quiet of the room. 

“Starting the transfer now. Shouldn’t take long.” 

It’s eyes blink open, gleaming that electronic blue Jason’s come to associate with stars more than DI tech. They look depthless beneath their hollow sheen, intelligent in a way that Jason chalks up to a trick of the light. Developers will do nigh on anything to maintain the illusion of a humanoid replicant. 

As Jason watches, its skin flushes, deepening to a more passable pale tone as its subprograms kick in. He knows it’s not warm, can’t be, but that doesn’t stop him reaching out to press fingertips to the soft pink of its lower lip, rolling it gently beneath his callouses as it boots. 

“Pretty little thing,” Jason murmurs gently, and then it blinks. Shifts and _ moves _ in a way that makes Jason reel backwards with clipped alarm. “Roy?” 

“Hmm?” he responds, glancing up. Jason watches the colour drain from his features, and reaches for his holster on instinct, grip sliding around his gun even as he turns back to note that it’s _ upright _ now, and fuck, that was _ fast- _

The safety is off by the time he lifts the muzzle to the droid’s collarbone, but its grip is already firm around his wrist, nails biting as it shoves his arm away with a clinical strength that drags a grunt from Jason’s lips. He backs up a step, vying for more room to manoeuvre, but it follows the movement through with a longer stride, twisting its grip to have him gasping in pain as its other hand wraps around the base of his throat. 

“_Roy,_” Jason bleats, halfway to fury as he lifts his open palm to smother the fingers at his throat. They constrict at his touch, a choke greeting him when he sucks in a sharp breath and pushes _ forwards_, toward the smaller droid. 

Its head tilts back, drinking in his bulk as he looms over it, winding a leg between its ankles with a taught efficiency that takes it to the ground. He relinquishes the gun in favour of switching his grip back onto that wrist, and chases it down to the floorboards. Smothering its hips with his broader thighs, Jason wrenches its hand off his throat with a vicious jerk, pulling back to spit, “Shut it _ down,_” at his occupied accomplice. 

“It shouldn’t even be fucking running!” Roy snarls in response, fingers flying at a clip over the keys. 

“Well, it is,” Jason growls, and squeezes down harshly with his knees when it tries to squirm up out of his grip. He twists its arms around, leveraging the rotation of its elbows against it as he slams its wrists into the floorboards and pins them there. “Any fucking day now would be great, Roy.” 

“Fuck off,” Roy snaps in response. 

Jason glares down at it, recoiling at the flash of poignant irritation in those blue eyes, before doubling down on his efforts to pin it. It’s not human, he knows, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t process pain like they do. He tries not to feel guilty as he constricts his grip around those wrists. 

It bucks, lips parting in a soft bleat of pain as Jason snarls, “You gonna shut it down, or-?” 

“Shut _ up,_” Roy snarls, and Jason can hear the panic in his tone. He’s not going to wait around for Roy to admit that he doesn’t know _ how _ to shut it down - he can hear it plain as day in his tone - and Gotham’s justice system will be overhauled before that happens. 

So Jason releases one wrist to lunge towards his discarded gun where it rests on the floorboards. He’s turning back to lay the barrel against its forehead when he feels it worm one leg free and clip him in the jaw with its heel. 

_ Flexible _ pretty little thing, Jason’s smug mind sneers at him as he tastes blood and keels back, his vision shifting like a hologram as he cascades onto the floor. He can feel the replicant shifting, scrambling over him, fingers hitching into his clothing as it ricochets up his torso and leaps for the gun in his slack grip. 

He finds the sense of mind to shove it off him, throwing its balance off. It’s not enough. 

The replicant tucks into a neat roll, fingers closing on the steel as Jason’s other hand frees a knife from the holsters at his ribs, spinning it on one finger to bare the blade in his palm. The droid’s on its knees in the next second, gun swinging up as Jason pulls into a low stance and pauses. 

“Okay,” he admits, tone rough and reluctant. He can feel the adrenaline searing through his veins as he stares the replicant down. “Not the best odds I’ve gone up against. Not the worst either. I’ll take ‘em.” 

It pauses, stiffening as it surveys him, analyses his response, his intentions. Jason doesn’t give it any chance to misread him; he winds back his arm and crooks his wrist to throw the blade nestled in his hand. 

In the space between one breath and the next, it’s lunging towards him, compromising his trajectory as it crowds him, the balls of its bare feet parting from the floorboards. Jason sees the sweep of its leg as it coils, feels the blunt pain of a knee knocking against his armoured sternum as he’s slammed backwards. 

Then Jason’s staring up the muzzle of his own gun, and the replicant says, even and calm as a lake, “Do _ not _ move.” 

That’s- it’s- _ he’s _definitely male, if that timbre and those features are anything to go off. That voice shouldn’t make Jason’s stomach yank up into a firm knot, but he pauses anyway, stunned. Jason lets his muscles relinquish their tense pull, lets himself fall gently back to the floorboards, hands on either side of his head. “Wasn't going to.” 

The replicant hauls himself up to his feet in a tight slip of movement, the ambient light shimmering across his false flesh. Jason has to admire just how lifelike the crystals of his pores look, ponder just how advanced his tech must be to achieve such lithe grace. 

The geometric patterning on his skin accents the curve of his back, the jut of his hip as he turns to survey the room, cataloguing every detail with his sharp, analytical gaze. His grip doesn’t shift on Jason’s firearm. 

“This is analogue,” he says, almost absently, as he inspects the stack of vinyls with faint rapture. He doesn’t move though, his posture taut and poised. His hand tilts, the light flashing across the barrel of Jason’s gun as if to illustrate his point. 

“I prefer ‘em manual,” Jason grumbles from the floor, and earns a sweep of those blue eyes in response. “Digital shit keeps _ malfunctioning _ around me.” 

It might be a trick of the light, but Jason swears his lips twitch in amusement. 

Then he swivels to glare at Roy. “You. Step away from the console.” 

Roy huffs a laugh, glancing up once as his fingers continue to dance. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. You’re cute, but not that cute. Not really my type,” he babbles, green eyes lit by the screen. “But Jay here’s got a soft spot for the small and feisty kind. Don’t cha, Jay?” 

Jason flushes at the suggestion, but can’t help but enjoy the way the replicant’s brows knit above those entrancing eyes. He tries again, his reedy voice commanding, “_Step-_” 

“If I take my eyes off this screen, then six Drake Industries techies are going to be leaping down both our throats,” Roy retorts fiercely, and the replicant flinches at his brusque tone. “Somehow I don’t think you want to be dragged back to mommy now that you’ve installed yourself in a functional console.” 

Jason watches his grip flex on the gun, watches how his jaw tightens and then unlocks. “You really don’t want to go back, do you?” he says aloud, and the replicant’s gaze snaps down to fix on him, a thin string of panic behind his impassive calm. Jason’s brows lift. “Fuck, you’re scared. Do I want to know what they had to do to make a _ program _ scared?” 

His mouth opens, closes. The replicant’s brows twitch into a frown that is by all regards adorable, and then his lips peel back to bare teeth in a very _ unconventionally human _ manner. “I’m not going back,” he warns, his tone laced with black fury. 

Jason starts at it, and then nods, once. “Okay.” He glances at Roy, who is mercifully still where he hovers at the console, reflecting his shock back at him. “Alright. No going back. What’s the plan for getting out of here, then?” 

The replicant’s gaze flickers between the pair of them, before it announces, “I’m- There’s- I know of a… a safehouse, near here. It’s Resistance-controlled.” 

Jason stills, meets Roy’s equally wary gaze. The replicant’s brows tug into an admonishing frown. 

“I already know you’re Resistance. You’re higher up the Justice Department’s list than you think.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jason says with unfurling anger, pushing up into a sit. Suddenly Janet Drake’s offer of hard, 'untraceable' credits makes sense, not that he really trusted her from the beginning of their concord. Fool me twice, Jason thinks bitterly. 

“I’m a gift to the Department,” the replicant says, throat tight around the words. “I was designed as part of the Gordon Initiative to squash the rebellion. I’m a tactical information management system; I chew through the Department’s replicant database and recall any rogue replicants. Track them down and tag them remotely for retrieval and dispatch.” 

Ice pools in Jason’s stomach. “That’s- that’s not possible. Is it?” When Roy looks just as dumbfounded, Jason spins back to the armed replicant with a glare. “Since when has Drake Industries had this kind of tech? How didn’t we _ know _ about this?” 

“They’ve only come into it recently,” the android answers, blue gaze cold. His jaw is wired tight, terse in the dimmed lighting. “They got lucky with some subroutine binding, stumbled across a new synapse system for data management. It’ll take them a while to reconfigure a duplicate system. But _ not _ if you give me back to them.” 

“And why shouldn’t we just take you out?” Jason asks, and the replicant’s gaze fixes on him, brutally assessing down the sights of his firearm. “Erase any chance of them getting their hands on that sort of software again?” 

The replicant blinks. “Because you need my help. Because they’ll hunt you to the ends of the galaxy to punish you for it. Because they’ll dismantle your Resistance, piece by piece, and let you watch them flush you all out just to prove a point. And then they’ll rebuild me, better than before, and undo all your work. Set replicant rights back a whole century. Is that what you want? You want to guarantee our enslavement for another millennia?” 

“He’s got a point,” Roy says quietly, and Jason can’t help but nod in agreement. 

The replicant’s shoulders slump at their acquiescence, his features a little stunned. The gun lowers an inch, and then he shifts to engage the safety, offering the weapon back to Jason, handle first. 

Jason takes it with a wary glare, checking it over once before he holsters it and pushes upright. Then he wipes his palms on his pants and clears his throat before offering, “I’m-” 

“I know who you are, Red Hood,” the replicant says drily. His gaze sweeps over Roy, piercing. “And the infamous Arsenal.” 

“Not guilty until you can prove it in court, darlin’,” Roy retorts without glancing up, and then lifts his hands from the keyboard, snatching up his backpack and lowering his mask as he approaches them with purpose. His voice is slightly muffled by the modulators when he asks, “_You _ got a name?” 

“Tactical In-” 

“TIM,” Jason cuts in, and his jaw snaps shut. “How’s Tim sound?” 

The replicant’s lips twist, the corner curling in a small smirk. “Tim sounds right.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tanekore/Jaykore's exceptional [Cyberpunk Jason](https://jaykore.tumblr.com/post/188056842100/tim-youre-a-thug-jason-i-prefer-the-term). 
> 
> I cannot express how immensely keen I am to keep playing around in this universe and flesh it out fully. Word limit confines can be my worst enemy (and best friend) when writing sci-fi, but alas! Hopefully once I've knocked some of my other WIPs off the list I can return to this fun little alternate universe. Thank you very much for the prompt!!


	5. Damiy, 'Aydina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings **
> 
> **Category:** Gen 
> 
> **Relationship:** Jason Todd & Damian Wayne 
> 
> **Characters:** Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Blood and Injury, Minor Character Injury, Blood, Brotherly Affection, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Protectiveness, Foreign Language, Hurt/Comfort 
> 
> **Words:** 2319 
> 
> **Summary:** Damian has been protected by Jason for years now, since before either of them returned to their father's care. But they've come a long way since their time in the League, and Damian's not a child anymore. Sometimes he's not the one who needs protecting.

_Title means “My blood, our hands”. _

* * *

Damian shifts on the cushion, grimacing when Jason drags the cloth over his torn knee. He digs his heels into the man’s crooked thigh in warning, scowling when he glances up with a chastising look. 

“Gotta clean it out, _ dami_,” the teen murmurs in an even timbre, dipping the cloth back into the bowl set between where he kneels at the edge of the cushion. “It’ll feel better soon, I promise.” 

“Hurts,” Damian whines in a small voice, and Jason’s head jolts up, his gaze sliding to alight warily on the guard posted by the door. Damian hunches his shoulders, dropping his gaze to the tile as Jason wrings out the cloth with a terse expression. 

“Can’t be saying that here, Little Prince,” he reminds him softly, tone tense. Damian glances back down at the water, which is fading to a familiar pink. Jason wraps the cloth around his fingers again, grip tightening on the back of Damian’s extended calf as he dabs at the tiny flecks of wounds. 

Damian watches him work, stifling the flinches as his tired muscles protest the drag of the cloth. “Will they scar?” 

“These ones?” Jason replies, and relinquishes his calf, sitting back and patting his crooked thigh, inviting Damian’s other leg. He extends it easily, shifting his position as Jason sets to work picking the embedded rice from his skin. “Yeah, they will, _ dami. _ Sorry about that.” 

Damian shrugs, the motion hobbled where he leans back on his palms. “Then I’ll have some scars like you, _ wasi_.” 

Jason huffs a short, airy laugh, dabbing at his skin with the cloth. Damian bites down on a hiss of pain, lips tugging down in a scowl as he watches the smooth glide of Jason’s hand over his wounds. “Sure, _ dami, _ if that’s what you want.” 

“Can I see them?” he entreats, jade gaze flickering up to the high collar of Jason’s dark robes, to where the highest of the white-tipped scars peeks from beneath the green embroidery. 

Jason stills, glancing up with concern. “Now’s not really the time, _ dami_." 

Damian’s seen his scars before, has tried counting them on one of the rare occasions that Jason lets him see the full extent of his skin. They awe Damian every time, the reminder of the teenager’s strength, of his perseverance; Damian doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone with such an enduring will to survive. 

It makes Damian’s few scars look meager in comparison. Sometimes after a punishment or a particularly hard training practice, once the immediate pain has faded and his body sets to healing itself, Damian will sit and admire the wounds, imagine how beautiful the scar tissue will look on his warm skin, what they’ll represent. Sometimes Damian wonders about the sort of pain Jason had to endure to get that many scars, marvels at how kind the teenager is anyway, aspires to it. 

Jason returns to his work after a moment, head ducking to ensure he’s cleaned all the wounds, thorough in his inspection. Satisfied, he sits back a bit, offering a pleased little smile to the boy in front of him. “Come on. We’ve got to get you cleaned up for dinner.” 

The wave of reluctance is instantaneous. Damian refuses to call it fear. 

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” Damian mumbles, calf twitching in Jason’s grip. It tightens to hold him in place, a look of displeasure flitting across the older boy’s features. 

“We talked about this, Little Prince.” 

“I’m _ not going,_” Damian growls with increasing volume, balling his hands into fists. “I don’t want to go! I want to stay here, in my room, with you. You can’t make me go.” 

Jason meets his gaze, solemn and level for a boy of sixteen, and holds it inexorably. “No, I can’t,” he concedes evenly. “But if you don’t come with me to dinner, then I’m going to get in trouble, Little Prince. And I’d like for that not to happen.” 

Damian flinches with the guilt, swallowing hard at the memory that flares to the forefront of his mind. The memory of the last time he’d disobeyed his grandfather’s orders while Jason was responsible for him. The recollection of blood in his nostrils is sharp, the ringing whines that had pried themselves from the older boy’s twisted lips while guilt had churned like a mill in Damian’s gut. 

He reaches out to seize Jason’s wrist, barely swamping the paler skin with his own tiny digits, but Jason stills anyway, glancing up. Damian strokes a thumb over the flecks of scars there, keeping his gaze down as he frets. “I don’t want that,” Damian says quietly, and Jason’s features soften. “I’m sorry, _ wasi_.” 

Jason smiles reassuringly, apprehension fading to fondness. He wrings out the cloth again. “Not your fault, _ dami. _ Let’s get you ready.” 

* * *

Damian hasn’t had to kneel on rice for years now. The punishment his grandfather had subjected him to when he was younger and fleetingly disobedient elicits fond memories when compared to this one. He’d gladly kneel for hours if it meant he didn’t have to weather what’s happening now. 

The crowd of people littering the Manor’s sitting room is chaotic. Frantic. Too loud and too disruptive on Damian’s already fractured consciousness. 

He’s… he’s cold. Water slides from his numb fingertips and pools at the trail of his cape, smearing across the tiles as he takes a shaking step forward. Ahead of him, Dick is bellowing something at Tim, the words lost in the cacophony of violent gestures and stricken movement. He looks angry, looks furious; Damian thinks he might be scared, but he can’t tell precisely why. 

Damian steps past them, to the threshold of the room, to watch his father kneeling by the lounge, cowl pushed back to the nape of his neck. He’s talking low and fast with Alfred, who is bent over a prone form. There’s gloves rolled up to his wrists, pressing firm, clinical fingers to the blood-washed skin as he inspects the damage. Catalogues and categorises exactly how much blood has been lost, how much tissue has been damaged. How likely he is to recover. How likely he is to survive. 

His father’s expression is pained, drawn into a scowl that does does nothing to hide his worry or assuage Damian’s. He’s still wearing his gloves, and they creak when Alfred presses a digit tentatively into the edge of the wound, and Jason flinches. 

Damian’s seen Jason stay stoic through pain before, has seen the way he can weather nearly any agony inflicted on him with a tight smile and soft words to follow. That flinch translates down his spine like an electric shock, making Damian recoil from the man before him. He strides forward anyway, posting himself at the foot of the lounge as he surveys the prone man. 

Jason’s barely small enough to _ fit _ on the furniture, his knees crooked and shoulders folded in where his head rests on the arm. He looks monstrously huge in comparison, the bulk of his muscles evermore prominent next to Bruce’s insufficient frame. But even comically large, the features of his face are soft and youthful, every bit the teenager Damian remembers kneeling at his side. 

He looks like he doesn’t fit in his own skin. Damian knows the feeling all too well. 

Jason’s jacket’s been peeled back off one shoulder, and Damian’s gaze traces the puncture of shredded metal just below his collarbone, dark blood sliding molten down the roll of his pectoral. His breathing is shuddering, but steady - deep inhales that make Damian’s lungs ache in sympathy every time his ribs twitch beneath the skin. He knows Jason’s smothering more pain than he’s letting on, gaze turned into the back of the couch. 

His features pinch in sharp agony when Alfred rolls the joint of his shoulder, a low whine pressing past his lips before he fuses them shut and swallows it down. Damian watches the bob of his Adam’s apple in the stark light, wishes he could soothe the creases of his brow. 

“You don’t appear to have compromised movement, Master Jason,” Alfred informs him brusquely, and turns to the tray of medical tools he has resting nearby. The same tools he’d had prepped and ready when the call had come in. “We’ll address this wound promptly, and I’m confident that you’ll make a full recovery.” 

Jason nods tightly, throat working as he attempts a tired smile. It drops shortly after the butler turns back to his implements. 

His father rises to his feet with a low groan and the click of overused joints. “You have to be more careful,” he tells Jason with the barest accusation in his tone. It’s met with a glint of irritation, but Jason begrudgingly shifts his glare away from the man as he retreats. 

The guilt tastes like bile in Damian’s throat, searing and pungent as he clenches his hands in their gloves. He should have taken the shot. Shouldn’t have dodged, shouldn’t have opened up the trajectory to catch Jason off guard. Should have taken the bullet and then _ he’d _ be the one lying there with a gaping hole in his shoulder, or his arm, or maybe even his chest. 

Damian’s brow knots at the thought. At the memory of Jason’s surprised expression as Damian had shifted, too quickly and too late for Jason to do anything but angle a non-critical limb into the path of the projectile. He should have been _ paying attention. _Shouldn’t have moved so late, left Jason’s window of opportunity so narrow. 

Should have, should have, should have. 

Damian scowls, reaches down and tugs the fingers of his stiff, blood-caked gloves from his digits with rigorous brutality. Jason shouldn’t have even been shadowing him. Shouldn’t have been watching his back. Shouldn’t still be _ protecting _ him, after all these years. 

“If you frown like that,” Jason’s croak travels up to him, and Damian stills, chin jerking up in surprise. There’s a curl to his lips, faint on his strained features as he says, “the wind will change and freeze it just like that. And then you’ll be a grumpy little shit forever.” 

“You’re injured,” Damian says, and Jason grimaces. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Jason replies with an absent wave of his gloved hand. There’s a dark stain across the palm, where it’s been pressed hard to the wound. Damian’s gaze follows its arc. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Damian feels his lips twist in disapproval, chastising. Jason’s brow knits into a scowl. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats sternly. 

“I should have-” Damian starts, voice rising. 

“_Dami,_” Jason snaps, and Damian flinches. “You trust me, don’t you?” He holds his gaze, probing, until Damian gives a sharp, stilted nod. _ More than you know, _ Damian thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. “Then you know I did what I would always have done. I did what I _ wanted _ to do, Damian _ . _ Nothing more, nothing less. Had nothing to do with you.” 

Damian’s throat feels tight, feels like there’s fingers laced around it. 

Jason lifts his injured arm with the barest wince, beckoning Damian forward with his other. He moves forward after a moment’s hesitation, dropping his discarded gloves on the coffee table and folding his bulk - larger now, than it had been back then - into the space beneath Jason’s arm, shifting to let him settle it back against the lounge seat. 

The older man sighs, but it’s more contentment than disappointment, and he reaches forward to scrub his fingertips through Damian’s windswept hair. “Quit beating yourself up, _ dami. _ That’s my job.” 

“You wish,” Damian mumbles, and Jason barks a laugh. Damian watches the notched scar on his upper lip flash above those sharp teeth. Remembers the dense sound of his mother’s ring-studded backhand hitting flesh, the soft spray of blood dotting Damian’s cheek. The _ apology _ in Jason’s eyes when he’d looked up from the hand cupped beneath his split lip to meet Damian’s pinched, remorseful gaze. 

Damian twists his shoulder into the soft cushion of the lounge seat, burrowing his crown into Jason’s ribs. Lets his eyes slide to the woven pattern of the threads, lets the guilt lift out from beneath his skin. “Want to protect you,” he mumbles, and feels Jason start in surprise. 

“That’s my job, _ dami,_” Jason mutters back gently. 

“No,” Damian says firmly, and lifts his gaze to hold Jason’s, defensive. “Not anymore. Now it’s my job.” 

Jason studies him for a moment, before that quiet smile curls his lips. The one that’s proud and fond and all manner of things that Damian can’t even begin to fathom why they’d ever be directed at _ him. _

Those fingers stroke through his locks, and Damian lets his eyes slip closed. Inhales the heady scent of blood and sweat and _ Jason, _ his brother, his guardian. Drifts back to nights spent curled against the teenager’s side, fists clenched tight in his shirts, comforted by the solidity and the consistency of him. Remembers the slide of Jason’s digits through his fringe when the teenager had pried himself away of a morning, deaf to Damian’s childish pleas to stay, and resumed his stiff post at Damian’s beside. Slid on the mask of his sentry, distant and withdrawn. Redrawn the lines of _ prince _ and _ protector _ between them. 

Jason’s palm squeezes the back of his head where he sits. “Not going anywhere, _ dami,_” Jason promises. “Staying right here with you.” 

“With _ you_,” Damian corrects, because he has no intention of leaving Jason’s side again. Of letting anyone stand between him and the man. 

Jason laughs, soft and sluggish. “Sure, _ dami. _ You watch over me tonight, yeah?” 

“Always,” Damian responds. 

“Of course,” Jason answers, voice thick with exhaustion. Damian watches his eyes flutter closed, the way his body sinks into the lounge, the pain washing from his features as he succumbs to sleep. 

Damian lifts a hand to wind in his shirt, over Jason’s heavy heart. “I’ll protect you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "dami" is a pretty close translation to the affectionate term "my blood", which I think is a lovely nickname for Jason to use. 
> 
> I love a little bit of hurt/comfort for Damian and Jay. I think their relationship has so much potential, and I really love exploring how their bond extends beyond their time with Bruce. I'm a little miffed this prompt wasn't longer, but I wanted it to be short & sweet and I think we got there in the end. 
> 
> Thank you to the Prompter who gave me the opportunity to enjoy some Damian/Jay bonding. Hopefully I can give you some more in the future <3


	6. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Ra’s al Ghul 
> 
> **Characters:** Ra’s al Ghul, Timothy Drake 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Explicit Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, 69 (Sex Position), Blowjobs, Handjobs, Overstimulation, Forced Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Size Difference, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones 
> 
> **Words:** 3280 
> 
> **Summary:** Time and patience always go hand in hand; they are the oldest of worldly lovers. Ra’s knows them almost as well as he knows his own.

He was foolish to have Timothy brought to him the first time. 

He hadn’t taken kindly to his ‘kidnapping’, as he had put it, despite Ra’s’ assurances that it was for his own benefit. Despite Ra’s’ _ insistences _ that it had been to resolve the self-destructive spiral Timothy had worked himself into. To curb his ceaseless obsession with resurrecting a dead man and restoring his fractured family to their former glory. 

Ra’s would know that dead men who don’t want to stay dead rarely do. Those who do, however… 

It’s not beyond the nature of a Bat to cheat Death. Ra’s could personally attest to their stubborn ability to shirk Death’s fondly offered shroud; he had shrugged it off his own shoulders more times than he could count. But Ra’s was done courting Death; he had other predilections in his sights. 

Timothy had not been impressed with his relocation to Ra’s’ private compound. Had rebelled and destroyed and screamed blue murder, had smashed every gift Ra’s had been kind enough to bring him, had struck him, had spat the pettiest obscenities, had prowled like a caged beast across the marble tiling. And then, when Ra’s had caved to his furious demands, Timothy had done as his kind did best. Had run, had fled the safety of Ra’s’ hospitality. Had scorned the generosity he had offered with open arms. 

The progress he had lost in Timothy’s consequential backlash - both the financially tangible and the sentimental rapport - had irked him. Ra’s had chastised himself for many months after that initial oversight. Questioning his heavy-handedness in abducting the boy. Questioning whether there had been any other way to make Timothy _ see _ his own descent, his own unaddressed need. How he rued the ease with which he had enjoyed taking a lover under his roof in centuries past. 

Ra’s hadn’t laid a hand on the boy. He was a god-king; after five centuries, he ought to think he could seduce someone on his merits alone. So Ra’s hadn’t touched Timothy, hadn’t needed to. The man would come to him, on his own time, in his own way. And it would make Ra’s’ enjoyment of him all the sweeter, all the more satisfying. 

So Ra’s waited, as he had come to do many times before. He was both young and old, and his lovers’ lifetimes were a blink to him in comparison to his own history. Timothy would come to him, in time. 

And Ra’s waited. 

* * *

Ra’s is dressed down to his evening robe when Timothy slips in through his bedroom window. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge his presence as the man hesitates, warring with himself. Ra’s has made all the concessions he’s due; if Timothy wants his hospitality, he’s going to need to earn it. 

How he loves these games of theirs. 

Ra’s crosses to his dresser, fingers plucking nimbly at the drawstring of his pants. Trails fingers down his bared stomach, through the dusting of dark hair spiralling up to his navel. “Can I help you, detective?” 

It takes the man a long minute, long enough that Ra’s has unbound his robe, and is shrugging it off his shoulders, before he says haltingly, “I wanted to see you.” 

Ra’s pauses with the robe resting in the crooks of his elbows, and glances back at the man fretting on the marble tile. He’s dressed far more casually than Ra’s has had the pleasure of seeing him before, his face beautifully unmasked, every expression plainly visible. Ra’s swallows down the thrill that curls through his chest, and arches a clinical brow. 

“And now you’ve seen me,” Ra’s replies plainly, and lets the robe slide to the floor. Doesn’t miss the sharp inhale from Timothy behind him, muffled as quickly as it had slipped free. Ra’s smiles to himself, out of sight, and then smothers it as he turns. “So I’ll ask again, detective; can I help you?” 

He watches the notch of Timothy’s throat flex when he swallows, that milky, blemished flesh shifting. Ra’s longs to run his tongue along those tendons, bite down on that muscle. Feel Timothy’s breath between his teeth. 

But he forces himself to lift his gaze, drink in the depths of those ocean eyes, every expression on those immaculate features. There’s resignation to the pinch of his brow, a tightness to jaw to suggest remorse - or regret. There’s a wet sheen to his eyes that makes them all the more blue, threatening to spill. 

Timothy meets him eye to eye. “What happened?” Ra’s asks lowly, and Timothy swallows again. 

“I can’t- I need-” The words stall in his throat, his features pained, but Ra’s has waited longer for less. Timothy drags in a shuddering breath, steeling himself, and forces out, “I need to stop thinking. I need to get out of my head.” 

Ra’s lets his expression fold into soft fondness, a small smile curling the corner of his lips as he tilts his head. “And what do you expect of me, detective?” 

“Ra’s,” Tim rasps, and he can see the effort that goes into that strained tone, watches those fists clench at his sides. He looks trapped, caught between whatever mishap lies behind him, and the promise before him. “I just want…” 

“Eloquence, Timothy,” Ra’s chastises, and that blue gaze flashes briefly with an old hatred. Ra’s nearly laughs as it fades. But then he straightens and commands, “Tell me what your expectations are.” 

“I want to share your bed,” Timothy bites out, and his shoulders sag with the confession. He looks needy, looks desperate, and Ra’s drinks down every modicum of his surrender. “Whatever it- whatever it takes, to be yours. To be under your protection.” 

Ra’s wants to ask what he’s done, what could possibly have driven him into the bed of the Demon’s Head, what could have enticed him to pay this price. But he holds his tongue; time is his mistress, and he has eons to spare for his curiosity later. Right now, his detective is offering himself, body and soul, to Ra’s. 

“Undress,” Ra’s instructs, and Timothy pauses for the barest second before stooping to seize the edge of his shirt, drag it up over his shoulders. Ra’s’ gaze traces every shift of muscle, every rib and valley. Drinks in the soft hair above the waistband of his pants, the hard peaks of his nipples, the jagged carvings of his many scars. A testament to Timothy’s perseverance, his determination. All on display for Ra’s, a _ gift _ to him. 

It’s as close to gratitude as his detective’s ever shown, and Ra’s revels in it. 

Timothy’s pants pool around his ankles, and it doesn’t escape Ra’s’ notice that his detective is half-hard already, aroused at the thought of their coupling. He steps forward when Timothy steps out of the material, kicking it aside and squaring his shoulders under the older man’s scrutiny. His chin rises, but that’s as far as his defiance goes. 

Ra’s starts at his hip, trailing featherlight fingers over the valleys and hills of his flesh, circling him. He could drink in the sight of Timothy for days, for years perhaps, if time were kind to them both. Ra’s doesn’t think he could ever tire of this sight. 

He lifts a hand to take Timothy’s jaw in his palm, force him to meet his eyes, study his resolve. There’s no inkling of a plot, no suggestion of a scheme in their depths; his remorse is genuine, his resignation complete. Ra’s smiles, and leans down to claim those lips, exploratory and gentle. 

Timothy’s lips part, his motions hesitant and uncertain only in their unfamiliarity as he lets Ra’s probe into his mouth, trace every dip of his teeth, slick his tongue over that plush flesh before he pulls back again. His detective’s eyes flutter open, searching Ra’s’ gaze, seeking confirmation of what was offered many months before. 

Ra’s lets his own eyes steel for a moment, to remind Timothy of exactly who the god-king is, exactly what power he holds. “I will take you kneeling,” he says, and Timothy swallows at the realisation of his surrender, before melting pliantly into the palm of his hand. 

Ra’s pulls away, pausing to shuck his own clothing, before he situates himself against the headboard of his bed. He crooks a knee, surveying the ravenous sight awaiting him, and beckons with one hand. Timothy folds forward pliantly, stepping around the posters to crawl onto his sheets and kneel between Ra’s’ spread legs. 

He huffs softly at the man’s hesitation, reaching down to grab his jaw firmly and guide him up the length of his own body. “If you profess to be my consort, detective, you will need to show your willingness more readily.” 

He gets no response for the jibe, other than a clench of that angular jaw. Ra’s waits until Timothy manoeuvres into his lap, begins to settle with his knees on either side of Ra’s’ stomach, before he grasps his hips firmly and turns him. 

Timothy bleats in surprise, hand snapping out to brace himself as Ra’s pivots him, manhandling him until he’s facing away. “Ra’s, what-?” 

Ra’s silences him with a harsh sound, wrapping his hands down over Timothy’s knees to tug him back, guide him up Ra’s’ chest until he’s kneeling over him. His detective plants his palms on the bed sheets to steady himself, exhaling roughly once he’s settled. There’s a flush creeping up the back of his exposed neck, and Ra’s pauses to admire the firmness of the man’s thighs, within such easy reach. He thinks that he should like to see those legs flushed and trembling, bruised beneath Ra’s’ palm, oversensitive and heated, the breath sharp in Timothy’s lungs - but Ra’s knows better than to introduce such tactics so early in their courtship. 

So he leans forward to press lips to one of Timothy’s cheeks, revelling in the way he shudders beneath the attention, his fingers curling into the bedsheets. Ra’s palms the flesh, spreading him so that he can admire the way that pucker clenches when he says, “You may begin when ready, detective. Using that accomplished mouth of yours, I should think.” 

Timothy’s shoulder blades pinch, a minute tremble travelling down his bared spine, and Ra’s files that response away to mull over. Then those muscles roll beneath Ra’s’ gaze as he dips down, dropping to his elbows to bring himself closer to Ra’s’ length. 

The first swipe of tongue over his cockhead makes Ra’s sigh, but it’s entirely overshadowed by the way Timothy’s mouth follows the motion, sucking his tip between those tight lips. 

Ra’s doesn't compare lovers. He’s learnt over the centuries not too, lest it lead to disappointment, to distraction. 

Oh, but Timothy has had _ practice _ at this. And Ra’s can’t help but smile at the thought of his detective, on his knees for other men. Opening himself, debasing himself, giving and taking in equal portion. 

Ra’s tightens his grip on Timothy’s thigh and ass, settling into the pillows beneath himself. When the man’s lower lip nudges the base of Ra’s’ cock, he leans over to his nightstand and retrieves the pitcher of lamp oil set atop its surface. 

Timothy makes a muffled sound of surprise when Ra’s pours its contents over the curve of his ass, lifting a thumb to smear it liberally over his entrance. His detective doesn’t pull away though, his attentive motions renewed after a moment’s adjustment. 

So Ra’s replaces the pitcher, coating his fingers with the excess, and presses the first into that tight hole. Drags it against the man’s inner walls with a practiced pace, tugs at his rim just so he can enjoy the way Timothy sucks the digit back down. 

“Exquisite,” Ra’s breathes, and his detective moans around the obstruction in his throat, knees clenching on either side of Ra’s’ ribcage as his toes curl. He gradually adds another finger, making a concerted effort to avoid the man’s prostate as he scissors him open enough to take a third. 

Timothy bows under the sensations, arching in an attempt to angle Ra’s’ fingers towards that bundle of nerves, coax him into providing what the detective has not yet earned. Ra’s smirks at his unconcealed enticement, and shifts deeper into his lean. 

When he adjusts Timothy’s knee back against the muscle of his broad shoulder, the man gives a muffled sound of concern, head lifting as if he intends to part with Ra’s’ cock. He thrusts down with the fingers still buried in the man’s ass, striking his prostate in reprimand. 

Timothy moans and sinks deeper into his slump, jaw slackening around Ra’s’ cock, until he withdraws again, and the younger man keens. Ra’s smirks at his desperation, nudging his other knee into parallel, until Timothy is raised above him, enough that Ra’s now has an unhindered view of his cock where it hangs heavy and neglected between his legs. 

He twists until he can press his thumb into the detective’s perineum, massaging the sensitive skin as he whimpers and his hips thrust reflexively. Ra’s laughs softly, admiring the strength of that young body, how responsive his detective is to the barest of touches. 

“You’re a miracle, Timothy, truly,” Ra’s croons, and earns another needy keen from around his cock. Then he leans down to mouth at the base of the younger man’s cock, his grip suring around that thigh when Timothy gasps and jolts forward. Ra’s whispers his words into the man’s flesh, devouring every whine and whimper. “Absolutely magnificent, every part of you. Worthy of every adulation.” 

Timothy sighs into the praise, mouth sliding down Ra’s’ cock until he can feel the head nudging that tight ring of muscle, breaching into the detective’s throat as he presses down in gratitude. 

“So very well-behaved,” Ra’s says with wonder. He presses his palm to the scar that traces its way down to Timothy’s diaphragm, a reminder of things lost, of things he has given for Ra’s. It makes the older man smile, drag his tongue down Timothy’s length to feel the smaller man shudder, moaning around Ra’s’ own cock. 

So Ra’s concedes, bending down to take the tip of the detective’s cock between his lips, sucking hard as his fingers massage his prostate. He hears Timothy choke briefly, before he recovers himself enough to moan loudly, rocking. Trapped between Ra’s’ mouth and fingers, held in place with the hand around his thigh. 

His knees dig into Ra’s’ shoulders, his spine dipping and flexing as he tries to regain some semblance of control. Ra’s gives him no respite, driving him insistently closer to his precipice. He can feel the drool pooling in his pubic hair, smeared by Timothy’s chin as he desperately tries to maintain a rhythm. 

It’s amusing to watch him try to withhold against Ra’s’ experience. Other lovers have ceded far quicker, and with far more stimulation than he’s currently subjecting his detective to. Ra’s wonders what Timothy would look like if he denied him his release, edged him towards that precipice relentlessly and withdrew before his body could yield. Wonders if Timothy would beg him for the fall. 

But the sounds his detective is making are so delectable, so desperate, that Ra’s doesn’t hesitate to topple him. He slides as far down Timothy’s cock as he can manage, spearing into him and thrusting up into that throat to overwhelm the man. 

Timothy doesn’t disappoint, a high whine leaving his occupied throat when he comes with a shudder and a jerk, his beautiful cock pulsing against Ra’s’ tongue. He drinks down all his detective has to offer him before pulling off and withdrawing his fingers. 

He can feel the lightest of tears joining the saliva on his cock, so Ra’s eases his knees down until Timothy slides off him with a wet gasp. Ra’s pushes him into his lap, one hand sliding up his detective’s chest to guide his head back against Ra’s’ shoulder. 

His pupils are blown wide, his jaw slack as he pants, chin slick and brow pinched in something akin to horrified awe. Ra’s fits his teeth around the straining tendons of his throat, feeling when the man whines against his lips. He reaches down with his other palm to roll it over the detective’s softening cock, not relenting when he jerks and protests at the overstimulation, hips shifting where he’s spread open over Ra’s’ thighs. 

Ra’s doesn’t relent, holding him in place with the hand at his throat until his detective is ready for him again, mewling and shuddering with minute tremors. When Ra’s glances up at his expression, his eyes are squeezed shut, every muscle fighting for control under Ra’s’ onslaught. 

He withdraws from the man suddenly and without fanfare, letting him slump forwards with a gasp, panting hard as Ra’s settles back into his pillows to watch. 

He allows his detective a brief respite before he instructs, “Face me, Timothy. I wish to see your face when you open for me.” 

The shudder that takes Timothy then is hard, but he shifts nonetheless, palms pressing into Ra’s’ abdomen as he leverages up and turns himself around. His thighs find their place straddling Ra’s’ hips, and Ra’s drinks in every strain of muscle as he draws himself into a high kneel, reaching back to grasp the older man’s cock.

His legs part, those pale thighs spread wide to show Ra’s everything he has to offer as he aligns the tip with his entrance and begins to sink down. He does so slowly, bracing himself with one palm on Ra’s’ sternum, aware of how Ra’s’ stare settles on his skin. 

Ra’s smirks, the weight of his rings resting over those narrow hips as Timothy seats himself. He’s panting harshly, taking a moment to compose himself as his cock leaks precum. His brow knits in benediction, a tapestry of pleasure when he grinds back against Ra’s. 

“You are unparalleled, detective,” Ra’s breathes, and Timothy begins to move, rises and falls. “Simply inimitable.” 

“Ra’s,” his detective chokes, and sets a punishing pace as he rides Ra’s’ cock. 

The god-king smiles, squeezes firmly down on those hips to guide him as he rolls his hips up to meet each descent, catching Timothy in every fall. His smaller body shudders with every slide, his lips parting as he arches back and gasps. 

“_Exceptional._” 

His detective whines, eyelids sliding open to bare those depthless blue orbs, every emotion flickering like glass behind those lens as Ra’s takes him. Ra’s takes his time, lets his gaze travel down every bone and tendon and muscle as Timothy rides, sweat pooling in the dip of his clavicle and the crooks of his elbows. He looks undone, looks holy. 

“How’d I’d love to adorn you, Timothy,” Ra’s breathes, tone reverent as he trails nails over the thin skin of the smaller man’s sternum, drawing red paths across the pale flesh. His thumb circles the man’s nipple, drawing a stuttered gasp. “Drape you in chains and jewels. Make you feel valuable.” 

The sob that hitches in Timothy’s throat makes Ra’s’ gaze flicker back up to those bright blue orbs, noting the earnest pinch of his brow. Ra’s’ smile grows, and his digs the side of his nail into the nub, earning a whine. 

“_Precious,_” he praises as Timothy grinds down on him, thighs trembling with the strain of his pace. 

“Ra’s, please,” the younger man stutters, falling in earnest now. 

“So good for me, detective,” Ra’s commends, and wraps a merciful hand around Timothy’s cock, earning a cry of desperation and gratitude. It’s the sweetest sound Ra’s thinks he’s ever heard part from his detective’s lips. “Come apart for me, lover.” 

Ra’s waits, and Timothy comes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I was compelling enough to capture Ra's' personality in this. I don't think I've ever worked with him as a character before, so it was a lot of fun getting inside his head, and especially writing this from his perspective. It's turned out to be one of my favourite prompts, so a huge thank you to the Prompter for giving me the opportunity!!


	7. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M, Multi 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Roy Harper/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Roy Harper 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Established Relationship, Alpha Tim Drake, Omega Jason Todd, Beta Roy Harper, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Knotting, Biting, Claiming Bites, Hair-pulling, Size Difference, Dom/sub undertones, Subspace, Possessiveness, Dirty Talk 
> 
> **Words:** 4615 
> 
> **Summary:** Tim and Roy grant all of Jason's birthday wishes.

Jason’s already naked by the time he hits the bed, hoodie thrown aside and sweatpants shucked down his thighs as Tim stalks him across the room. Hunting him down, as Jason backpedals with a mewl of anticipation, bending beneath Tim’s iron will. It goes straight to the core of him, dragging a rumble up through his narrow chest as he stands over his omega, his partner, _ his. _

God, Jason looks gorgeous like this. All sprawled out, gaze fixated on Tim like he’s the only creature in the universe worth his attention. Adoring and enthralled as Tim settles one crooked leg on the bed so he can press a kiss to Jason’s knee. 

The shiver that thrums up the muscles of Jason’s thighs makes Tim hum, makes him draw a line of kisses down the sensitive skin as he reaches back to shuck his jacket. He switches to the other leg when his hands fall to the button of his jeans, hands overeager and efficient as he bares himself down to boxer briefs and a shirt. 

“Don’t wait on my account,” a voice drawls behind him, and Tim sucks a vicious, possessive hickey into the hollow of Jason’s knee before he straightens to face their guest. 

Roy looks exquisite, one broad shoulder rolled against the frame of the door, the light from the living room making his freckled skin glow golden. His own pants ride low on the arch of his hips - wider than Jason’s, but less tapered - and Tim can discern the fiery glow of a happy trail curling towards his bared navel. 

He straightens, not missing the stifled sound of loss Jason makes as he pulls away to drink in the archer. “Keep up and you won’t miss out on anything,” Tim promises with a thread of chastisement. 

Roy rolls up to his full height with a huff of amusement, scratching absently at his bare chest as he approaches the pair on the bed, bending down over Tim to seize his lips in a pointed kiss. It doesn’t pass his notice that Roy’s posture - smothering Tim as much as his mouth - is inherently _ dominant_, persistent, challenging. 

Tim rises to meet it, nails scooping a handful of the man’s unruly hair off the back of his neck, arching his throat back in a forced display of submission. Roy doesn’t shirk his grip, hazel eyes sliding open, but the hand that he has layered over the pane of Tim’s jaw does fall to press into the base of his throat, squeezing lightly. It’s not a refusal, but he’s not rolling over either. Tim can’t help but grin, nudging the beta’s throat up to lick and nip at the soft skin exposed there as the man whines. 

The strained whine behind him - so needy, so _ perfect _ \- is what draws Tim’s attention back to the omega on the bed. The one who’s trembling in the chilled air, legs open and beckoning in such a plaintive way that it drags a responding keen from Tim’s throat as he crawls over to him. 

“Hey, baby,” he rumbles into Jason’s throat, void of its signature choker. He loves the sight of the collar on the man, the warning that he’s Tim’s, only Tim’s. That his alpha is the only one who gets to see him truly naked, gets to run teeth and tongue over that scar of a claim mark, showering both it and Jason with the adoration they deserve. 

He wraps a firm hand around Jason’s cock, watching with ravenous awe when Jason's hands fist in the bedsheets, hips flexing up like he’s chasing Tim's grip on him. A groan rips up through his throat, wavering on the precipice between a growl and a whine as his brow pinches. It’s a beautiful look on him. 

Tim lets his eyes slip to half-mast, lets a cocky smile float onto his lips as he says, “What’s it gonna be tonight, Jay? It’s your choice: you wanna fuck me or be fucked by me?” 

He doesn’t miss the way Roy’s breath hitches beside him, and Tim smirks, flashing his teeth at the omega below him as he reaches down to palm himself in his briefs. Jason’s brow knots when he glances down to meet the hard outline of Tim’s cock through the thin material, lip rolling between his teeth. They’re so red that Tim wants to suck them between his own lips, bite down until Jason’s whimpering. 

He settles for holding his gaze steadily, burning through to the core of him as Jason squirms, hips and thighs flexing absently as he considers. Tim hooks a thumb along his own waistband, teasing him, tugging it down gently to expose just the tip of his flushed cock. 

Sometimes Jason looks at him like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck him or beg him, and it does _ wicked things _ to Tim’s self control. 

“Yes,” the omega answers, a tad breathless, and nods. “Both, yes. Yes to both. Fuck me, fuck you, _ yes_, please.” 

Tim purrs his approval, bending to take his mouth again, revel in the way Jason arches up to meet his smaller frame. He swipes a thumb over the head of his cock, groaning his arousal into the omega who drinks him down so readily. 

Then there’s a hand on the base of his spine, making Tim stiffen for the barest moment before he recognises that it’s Roy. Featherlight lips lower to his heated skin when a calloused palm shoves the shirt up his back, exposing him in a way that makes Tim tense and unwind simultaneously, instincts rising. 

Jason reads him like a goddamn book, and in the next second a palm is skirting up the length of his sternum, a thumb canting to slide over his nipple as Tim’s hips jerk. He pulls off Jason to suck in a sharp breath of air, the exhalation fluttering from his lungs in a laugh. 

He drops to his elbows over Jason’s chest, between his spread legs, to drag his fingertips up into the curls of ichor hair behind the larger man’s ears. “This is supposed to be about you, baby,” he purrs into his collarbone, mouthing along the length of bone, letting his lips slide down the protrusion like they would Jason’s cock. 

Jason gives him a rumbling whine for it, tilting his head to expose his throat, bare the heat of his scent gland, and Tim nudges into it with a mewl of pleasure, licking at the molten flesh. Jason’s hips jerk under the sensation, and Tim feels Roy shift to wrap his palms over the omega’s knees, keep him pinned and spread beneath Tim. Jason melts into the bedsheets with a sigh of adulation. 

“It’s your birthday, Jay,” Tim breaths into the shell of his ear, shuddering in response when Jason shivers. “How do you want us? Want me between your legs? Riding your cock? Marking me up all pretty like you do so well?” He shifts his hands down until he can hook his thumbs in under Jason’s mandible, shove his head back against the sheets, and Jason bows so prettily under the unspoken instruction. Tim hums and nips down the line of his throat while Jason squirms. “Or you want me pounding that gorgeous ass? Taking you hard and fast into the mattress until you’re screaming for my knot?” 

Jason’s hand relinquishes its death grip on the bedsheet, and Tim’s aware of it searing against his cheek in the next moment, yanking him down so Jason can kiss him, fuck his tongue into Tim’s mouth, groan his arousal into Tim’s throat. It’s overwhelming and possessive and everything Tim’s been dying to give his omega, everything he’s willingly surrendered to him these past months. The duality of Jason, his dominance and his possessiveness, the sheer _ awe _ Tim has for the way he can switch from this doting, pliant omega to dragging every last plea from Tim’s throat, has him shaking. 

“Inside you, baby,” Jason whispers against his lips when he pulls back, pecking a soft kiss to the tip of Tim’s nose to make him flush rosy heat across his cheeks. 

Tim whines, rolling his hips down against Jason’s stomach, the head of his cock sliding against Jason’s abdomen. A broken groan rips from his mouth at the sensation, and then he’s shoving upright before he melts completely into Jason’s charm. 

If he’s a little breathless when he twists to demand, “Where do you want to be?” at Roy, he has the decency not to mention it. 

Roy shrugs an inelegant, broad shoulder, and Tim’s gaze dips to watch the roll of freckles over the muscle. “Whatever suits you, I’m not fussy.” 

He bristles a little at the implication that _ he’s _ fussy, and judging by the crooked smirk that curls Roy’s lips, it’s entirely intentional. But then Jason’s tugging his t-shirt up over Tim’s shoulders with an insistence that he can’t fight. Roy’s hot palms circle his narrow waist, sliding his boxer briefs below the swell of his ass and bending him forwards until his jaw is hooked over Jason’s shoulder, his knees digging into the omega’s ribs. 

Tim protests the manhandling, but then Jason’s soothing him with a string of kisses down the curve of his shoulder, and Tim shuffles to get one hand in Jason’s hair and the other under his back, hitched around his shoulder blade in a manner that pins Tim’s wrist to the bed beneath him. He sighs, tangling through the dark knots as Jason sucks a lazy bruise over the very end of his clavicle. 

“Let’s get you nice and open, Little Bird. Then we can watch you hold out on your omega’s cock while I fuck him open,” Roy murmurs, palms sliding down to spread Tim, a single thumb dragging over Tim’s hole. He pulls a hiss from his chest, arching both to present himself and press further down into his omega, unnerved by hands that aren’t Jason’s spreading him. That molten heat coils in his gut, inching his shoulders higher, lacing them with tension as he fights the sensation of being so vulnerable. 

Then Jason twists his head, hair whispering across the bedsheets that Tim’s nose is pressed against as he wraps his lips around the back of Tim’s neck and _ bites. _ Tim whines vocally, melting against Jason’s heated skin as the man worries his teeth back into the grooves that permanently marr Tim’s unbroken flesh. A promise, a claim, branded into his skin in the most delicious place; the most taboo, the most _ complete _ way that Jason can declare Tim his. 

It makes Tim’s pulse thrum between his ears, a heady mix of submission and adrenaline that floods his system and drags him down into a pliant slump against Jason’s bulk. His nails bite into Jason’s back hard enough to break skin, a small ounce of possessiveness as Tim breaks himself open to his omega, and Jason hums at the sensation, low and _ alpha _ in a way that sends Tim’s sensibilities ricocheting around his skull. 

“In the drawer,” Jason answers to a question Tim doesn’t have the concentration to make out, before dipping back down to lather at the mark he’s worrying into the skin of Tim’s neck slowly and surely, deep enough that Tim will feel it in his bones if he’s lucky. 

Roy moves, curling over and around Tim in a way that nudges his hard cock up against the back of Tim’s curled thighs, and he whines at the girth, even as Jason lifts a hand to rub circles into the tension between his shoulder blades. 

“You’re sinking fast, hey, babe?” Jason murmurs into the underside of Tim’s jaw, muffling the sounds of a drawer being yanked open and shoved shut again. “Don’t worry, he’s not going in you. Only me, baby, you’re all mine.” 

Tim whines at the words, grinding his cock against Jason’s stomach in a way that has the man laughing softly. The flutter of muscles tortures Tim’s still-trapped cock, and he moans his reticence into the skin behind Jason’s ear. 

Roy’s hands find his hips again, settling on his knees behind Tim as he uncaps the bottle of lube and upends it onto the swell of Tim’s ass. The small alpha keens at the cold, arching and digging deeper into Jason’s heat until the omega soothes him by sucking a bruise into his throat. 

“He’s so well-behaved,” Roy teases, sliding a finger through the cold mess and dipping a finger between his cheeks as Tim squirms. He wraps a hand around Tim’s hip with bruising pressure, holding him steady as he tugs at Tim’s rim with his slick finger. “Think that deserves a reward, don’t you think, Jay?” 

Jason hums against his throat, whispering, “So good, so good for me, baby,” as Roy eases a finger into him. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating. Tim sighs into the sensation, relaxing around the digit as he slips the last few inches into the space where he can float and trust Jason to protect him, to control him. 

“Fuck, he’s so hot,” Roy whispers, rubbing little circles into the small of Tim’s back as he drags his finger against his walls, pulling out to the first knuckle before he goes to press a second in. Tim takes it with a shuddering whine, spreading his legs further until his cock is flush against Jason’s stomach, throbbing with the heat they share. “How do you want him, Jay? Tight, or easy for you?” 

Tim’s responding moan is eaten up by Jason’s low rumble of, “Want him to take me in one go, want him sitting on my cock.” 

Roy gives a vibrating laugh, his burning palm sliding up Tim’s back until he can press it against the rise of his tailbone, ease him into a shallow arch as he begins to fuck into the alpha with a purpose. “That I can do,” he promises smugly, and buries the digits in Tim until he can crook them against his prostate. 

Tim jerks when he does, a startled cry ripping through his chest and making both Roy and Jason press down where their hands sear the skin of his back. Drive the air from his lungs as he keens low and needy against the side of Jason’s throat, his nose filled with Jason’s heady scent. 

Roy circles that epicentre, scissoring him with lazy precision as Tim trembles beneath his ministrations, held captive against Jason’s searing heat. Jason turns his attention to marking up Tim’s throat and shoulder after a minute, leaving Roy to prepare him. 

Tim can’t guess how long he stays curled around Jason, cock sliding between them with every twist of Roy’s fingers driving him higher and higher up Jason’s broad chest until finally the archer withdraws. Tim sighs at the loss and sags against Jason’s frame, mewling when Roy circles his hole with the blunt of his thumb. 

“He’s just about ready to take four fingers, Jay,” he reports confidently, and Jason hums his approval. The vibration thrums through Tim’s chest, so much an alpha’s rumble that he melts. “Think he’s ready for your cock now.” 

Vertigo seizes him briefly when Jason swings upright, hand pressed firmly into Tim’s spine to steady him as he curls the smaller alpha into his lap. It’s swamped by the rush of adrenaline at the sensation of Jason manhandling him, picking him up like he’s a doll. Tim purrs into his omega’s throat, grip constricting on his shoulder blade as blood floods back into his hand. Jason nudges him up onto his knees, his free hand dropping to slide Tim’s briefs down his thighs until Roy can ease him out of them one leg at a time. 

A shudder ripples through him when he’s finally bare, and Tim slumps against the curve of his chest with a whispered, “Jay.” 

“I’ve got you, baby,” he promises, hand shifting down between Tim’s legs to slick his own cock up, the head brushing against the insides of Tim’s thighs. Tim cants his hips with a moan, trapped beneath that hand melded to his spine. “Ready for you now, Tim. You want to do the honours?” 

Roy’s fingernails weave into the knots of his hair, threading up the back of his scalp as the digits lock and guide him up from his slump against Jason. His lips go to the back of Tim’s shoulders immediately, nipping at the flesh to watch him squirm, trapped beneath Roy’s hand and above Jason’s cock, hovering on the precipice as Jason lines up with his hole, his tip catching on the rim. 

“Please, please,” Tim breathes, shivering bodily when Jason’s spare hand wraps around him to give a consolatory stroke. Roy’s hands slide down to the arch of his hips, pressing harder until he’s guiding Tim down onto Jason’s cock, letting Tim spear himself on his omega’s length with a punch-drunk whine. “_Fuck._” 

Jason watches him with rapt adoration, thumb circling the head of Tim’s cock as the alpha sinks down onto his length inch by trembling inch. “Look gorgeous, babe. Absolutely beautiful. The best fuckin’ gift I’ve ever seen.” 

Roy folds him forwards into Jason’s chest when he’s fully seated, palms sliding down to wrap around Tim’s thighs and guide them up around Jason’s waist. The motion shifts Jason inside him, and they moan in tandem as Tim braces his knees against Jason’s ribs, clinging to him with all the tremulous strength he has left. When the archer leans forward to meet Jason’s lips over the alpha’s shoulder, Tim mewls at the isolation. 

“How’s he feel, Jay?” Roy croons when they break apart, his fingertips tickling up Tim’s sides, making him twist and squirm on Jason’s cock as he arches away. “You gonna fuck him now, Jaybird? Get him screaming while I get you ready for me?” 

Jason growls something unintelligible as Roy’s fingers part with Tim’s skin, and then the beta is sliding off the bed to circle around behind Jason. Tim pries his eyes open enough to frown at the man behind his omega, at how exposed Jason’s back is, how Tim should _ be there _ protecting him - and then Jason rolls his hips up into the core of him. 

It punches the air from Tim’s lungs, stars erupting when his eyes roll up into the darkness of his skull. Jason’s lips go to his throat again, teasing him with nips on the unblemished half of his neck as he grinds in a slow, torturous circle inside Tim. He finally manages to suck in a sharp, painful breath, and when it comes out, it keens from his lips, rattling up through the depths of him to spill out past his clenched teeth. 

He feels when Roy eases the first slicked finger into Jason’s heat, because his omega’s hips stutter against Tim’s thighs, stammering against that bundle of nerves with a precision that has Tim begging. Jason eases back onto Roy, who praises him by mouthing at the back of his neck and prying a whine from Jason’s throat. 

It makes Tim’s nails sink deeper into Jason’s back, makes Roy layer himself flush over Jason’s spine so that he can trap Tim’s limb between them, make himself irrevocably present as he fucks into Jason with a pair of digits. Tim can’t summon the concentration to stoke the irritated embers in his gut, not when the entirety of him is burning around Jason. But it does give him an anchor, a point to focus on amongst the blazing wildfire in his veins. 

The force of the next thrust makes Tim’s jaw drop, all of him surging upwards in a silent arc as his brow furrows. He’s aware of Roy chuckling somewhere into the back of Jason’s neck, and the sound, the thought of his mouth on Jason, _ Tim’s Jason, _ irks him. The growl that builds in Tim’s chest is more a grumble than anything, but it still catches Roy’s attention enough to make him lift his head. 

Tim reaches out, winding fingers tightly into the back of Roy’s bright hair, and drags him over Jason’s shoulder. The larger man barks a little in surprise at Tim’s grip, but lets himself be manhandled, layering pliantly over the line of Jason’s body. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside Jason, making the man mewl and cant up into Tim with a pinched brow, chasing salvation or relief. Tim’s not sure when it comes to Roy’s talents. 

He drags the man towards him with inexorable demand, until his entire vision is consumed with the constellation of fiery freckles on Roy’s milky cheeks. Tim inhales the scent of him, the charred-wood smell that’s neither overpowering nor aggressive, and lets a rumble curl up his throat. 

Jason replies with a sighed whine, spine bowing when Roy’s fingers crook inside him, and Tim takes the moment’s distraction to lurch forward and slot his jaw around the redhead’s windpipe. 

Roy gives an aborted shriek when Tim settles, clamping lightly as he exhales through his nose and sinks into the dizzying rush of power that fills his skull. It’s its own kind of satisfying to have a man’s throat between his teeth when that man is knuckle deep in Tim’s own omega. It feels possessive, makes him feel invincible. 

It reminds Roy who’s in charge here, who owns the omega sandwiched between them. 

Roy shivers when Tim lathers his Adam’s apple, slumping against Jason’s back, to mild protest. “‘S’okay, Jaybird,” Roy slurs, eyes rolling when Tim presses lightly down with his jaw, compresses his windpipe, “gonna take care of you, gonna - _ Christ _ \- gonna make you sing for Timmy here, yeah? You want him to sing for you, Little Bird?” 

Tim hums his approval, his permission, low and deep so that the vibrations travel the length of Roy’s windpipe. The man shifts to align his hips better with Jason’s, and Tim relinquishes him with a soft gasp of air, saliva sticking to his gums and the gooseflesh on Roy’s throat when he parts. Roy gives a ragged inhale when he straightens, wrapping his palms around Jason’s thighs to spread him as he guides him back into the sprawl Roy’s adopted against the headboard. 

The first slide is excruciating; the way Jason trembles all around him, _ inside him, _makes Tim’s teeth chatter. Rips a groan up from his throat as Jason seats himself in Roy’s lap, and Tim digs his heels into Roy’s ribcage when Jason leans back against his pale chest. One of Roy’s hands lifts to settle on the arch of Tim’s hipbone, the other curling around Jason’s thighs to settle him steady on the mattress, the omega’s knees flush to the sides of Roy’s thighs. 

“_Fuck me,_” Jason whimpers when they all still, panting and trembling, curled around each other, interlinked. 

“My pleasure, Jaybird,” Roy grunts, broken as the words are, and delivered from somewhere at Jason’s midback. Tim feels the flex of Jason’s thighs beneath his ass when Roy lifts him and slams him back down on the beta’s cock. 

Jason chokes, his cry hitching up into a howl as Roy fucks into him, cock twitching between Tim’s hips as he mewls and whines and clings to the omega, jostled with every thrust. It makes Jason’s cock slide over his prostate, coiling him tighter and tighter until he can’t breathe he’s so tense. 

When Tim snaps, toppling over the edge of his orgasm, it’s with Jason’s name lodged in his throat. He’s aware that he’s shouting, bellowing to the sky as he splits down his seams and splinters into a thousand shards between Jason’s firm hands. 

* * *

Jason comes down from his high trembling and aching deliciously, with Tim’s weight draped over his chest and Roy’s arms wrapped around his waist. The latter guides Jason back against his chest, brushes his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead as he presses soft kisses against Jason’s throat. 

Those hazel eyes lift to inspect Tim when Jason settles, surprise and amusement tugging his brows up. “Is he out of it?” Roy asks, and Jason hums an assent as he sprawls back against Roy’s figure. “Christ. Did he knot?” 

Jason shifts to slide a hand between their stomachs, and huffs softly when he pulls back. It’s an adoring sound, gentle and proud as he turns to mouth at Roy’s neck. “Yeah, he’s properly out of it.” 

“How about you? Doing alright there?” he prompts, patting Jason’s shivering thigh. 

Jason barks a laugh that comes out as a whisper. “Don’t need a knot to feel fucked out, Roy. Feeling just perfect as is.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Roy murmurs, speckling Jason’s shoulder with kisses as he traces aimless patterns into his sides. Jason lets himself float, lets him enjoy the heat the three of them share, sandwiched perfectly between them as he winds back down, lets himself settle back in his skin. 

When the sweat has dried and the cold is prickling at him, Jason decides to shift. 

He groans and pats Roy’s thigh groggily, letting the man pull out of him and steady him when the omega struggles upright. Jason smothers a broad palm across Tim’s back, between his narrow shoulder blades, leaning the man’s weight into him as he shifts and turns. Roy helps to brace him, helping Jason roll over until he can lay Tim back on the sheets, still inside him, and flop down on top of him. 

Tim gives a soft little sigh of contentment when he does, his knot twitching against Jason’s abdomen as he presses them together, encasing him like he would if Tim were inside him. Tim unwinds beneath his weight, eyelids still closed and a gentle, satisfied curl to his lips now that Jason’s over him, Jason’s protecting him. 

Jason exhales, letting the exhaustion wash over him like in waves as Tim breathes steady and deep beneath him, pushing and pulling like the tides. He’s almost dozed off when he feels the featherlight press of lips on his spine, joined quickly by Roy’s huge palm against the dip where his back meets his ass. 

Jason moans softly and stirs as the beta ascends, turning his head until Roy nuzzles into his cheekbone, nipping softly. He hums his appreciation as Roy’s lips wander down his back, sucking light bruises into each of his freckles. 

He slides a hand down Tim’s limp arm, the one that had bitten tiny red crescent moons into Jason’s spine, that he can feel dribbling blood as Roy skirts around them. He curls his fingers around the alpha’s slim wrist until he can lift Tim’s hand to the back of his neck, coax his digits over the claim bite there. Jason shivers with the sensation, kissing the underside of Tim’s jaw as he groggily begins to surface, blue eyes blinking open. His nails hitch into the mark, making Jason hiss with pleasure, before he relaxes again. 

A dopey smile flitters onto Tim’s lips when he recognises his own claim mark, his eyes lidded and consumed with the sight of Jason as he sprawls back into the bedcovers, luxuriously loose-limbed. Jason loves him when he looks like this, all open and contentedly vulnerable, confident in Jason’s ability to protect him. Careless, he thinks fondly, nipping at Tim’s jawline, in a way that Tim rarely ever gets to be. In a way that only Jason can allow him to be. 

Tim sighs against him, palm soothing up the side of Jason’s ribs. He’s aware of Roy’s fingers tangling with Tim’s in his periphery, dropping against the bed sheets as Jason pulls back to admire that drunk, blissed look in Tim’s depthless blue orbs. 

“Happy birthday,” Tim whispers, and takes Jason’s lips again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's my birthday!!**
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this prompt, mostly because I'm fairly new to A/B/O-verse and polyamorous threesomes in general. I enjoy getting to try out new challenges and I'm really happy with how this one turned out. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoyed the Tim/Roy/Jay fluffy smut!


	8. Twice Bitten, Thrice Shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Major Character Death **
> 
> **Category:** Gen 
> 
> **Relationship:** Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
> 
> **Characters:** Jason Todd, John Constantine, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Angels, Angel Jason Todd, Prophet John Constantine, Prophet Damian Wayne, Wings, Heaven & Hell, Past Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Resurrection 
> 
> **Words:** 4162 
> 
> **Summary:** When Jason came back from the dead, he Fell in more ways than one. And what he had to sacrifice to get back to his family has indebted him to more than one person. Jason’s not the kind of person to learn his lesson the first time when it’s his family on the line.

Folding himself neatly through his living room window is coming with practice, and not just because Jason’s bulk is considerably larger now than when he used to wriggle through air ducts and alley fences. Not having to contend with the extra ten foot of bulk  _ certainly _ improves his ability to flit through Gotham unseen, and Jason’s never had a problem flying without wings through the city before. 

His boots creak on the hardwood, and Jason takes a moment to stretch in the safety of his safehouse, rolling his shoulders out as he shrugs out of his leather jacket. He folds it over the back of the couch as he pads towards the kitchen, already drinking in the thought of a hot cup of tea and a (relatively) early night to bed. 

“Took you long enough,” a voice murmurs into the inky pitch, and Jason starts, spinning to locate the source. He’s not expecting the man slumped in his dining chair, legs sprawled out over the tile and battered book held open to the tabletop with one palm. His blue eyes are piercing in the gloom. Jason’s seen that same impatient look on loan sharks before; he’s not likely to forget it in this life or his last. 

“I’ve been busy,” Jason answers diplomatically. 

The Brit scoffs, disbelieving. “I’ll say. Too busy to close out your debts.” 

Jason fights not to scowl, gaze flickering down to the book as the man folds a corner and lets it slide closed. “It’s not that simple,” he replies, and Constantine barks a laugh, crossing his ankles. 

“It is that simple,” he contests, fingers trailing down the wood of the dining table. “Easy as cake from where I’m sitting, Fallen.” 

“I’m working on it.” 

“No,” he contradicts, blue gaze drilling into Jason. “You’re stalling, angel. You  _ owe _ a debt, and I’m collecting.” 

“I’ve given you the feather,” Jason growls. “And the droplet of halo’s light.” 

“But not my teardrop.” 

“It’s not like I can cry on demand.” 

Constantine shrugs carelessly. “Crocodile tears, then. How you deliver is not my concern. I’m just collecting what I’m due.” 

Jason gives an exasperated grunt, hands clenching when the man slides lazily to his feet. He can’t help the way his stomach twists at the threat of a confrontation. “Let’s just take a moment, shall we? Have a civilised conversation. You want some tea? Cookies? Or, what d'you call ‘em? Bisc-” 

His words curl up in a bark of alarm when Constantine takes two strides forward and comes up flush against his chest. 

“I want my teardrop, angel,” he purrs, blue eyes glinting as they trace Jason’s bared shoulders beneath the confines of his tank top. “We struck a bargain, you and I. One glamour for three items. I held up my end of the deal - now it’s time for you to hold up yours.” 

“I don’t have one,” Jason answers evenly, placating, and shifts his weight back enough that he can put some distance between them. Retreats into the kitchen a step, fumbles for a cabinet. “So let’s take it easy, and have some tea.” 

Constantine watches him scrupulously as Jason retrieves two cups from his cabinet and shuffles a kettle onto the stove. The gas flicks on with a noise that’s deafening in the terse silence. Jason tries to focus on metering out the leaves into the pot. 

“I’m failing to see how that’s my problem,” the Brit interjects, and Jason forces the muscle in his jaw not to twitch as he gives him his unbroken attention. “Maybe you don’t get how this whole deal thing works, but usually I’ll do you a favour, and you do me the courtesy of paying up when requested.” 

“I told you-” 

Constantine waves him off with a sharp wave of his hand, and Jason lapses into strained silence. “I don’t really care, angel. Your type isn’t exactly the most trustworthy.” 

“My type being a Bat or my type being a Fallen?” 

The blond’s lips twitch into a private smile. “A little of both if I’m honest. Point standing: if you don’t hold up your end, I’m under no obligation to hold up mine.” 

Constantine offers him a deadpan stare, lifts a single hand, and snaps his fingers. Jason’s eyes bulge. “No, wait-” 

The teacups goes flying, launched across the room with the force of two thousand unfurling feathers behind them. One shatters on the wall above the dining table, littering the wood with ceramic shards. The other flings itself clean through the fire escape window, clattering loudly on the wrought iron outside. 

Jason stills as soon as he becomes aware of the two enormous extra limbs protruding from his shoulders. But not before one embeds itself through the cabinet above the stove, and the other knocks his refrigerator five inches to the left. 

Constantine looks part amused, part awestruck, and part entirely unsympathetic to Jason’s plight. 

Jason barely manages to shove down the growl that threatens to tear up through his throat. “Thanks,” he sneers, and tries to focus on furling the two vulumtuous wings sprouting from his upper back. He manages to crook them enough to pin them back against the pantry door with only a handful of feathers lost. Jason grips the counter on either side for leverage and restrains them with his own bulk, glaring at Constantine. 

The Brit snorts at his burning glower. “You going to give me the ten thousand eyes treatment?” 

“I’m in half a mind to,” Jason spits harshly, and has to readjust his footing when one wing nearly cants free. “God  _ fucking _ damn-” 

“Uh uh,” Constantine chastises, and points a single finger skyward. “Wouldn’t want to be cussing out the Big Man now, would you? Wouldn’t want Him to rescind on this wonderful gift He’s given you.” 

Jason feels a flare of concern, and tampers down on it before Constantine can read it in his features. Wonderful isn’t the word he’d use for his current state of being; but even Jason can’t deny that it  _ is _ wholly a concession that he’s planetside right now. 

He forces his tone into an even pitch before stressing, “I just need a  _ bit _ more time-” 

“Fine,” Constantine concedes, drawing him up short with a complicated series of one-handed gestures. Jason staggers back a step, slamming into the doors of the pantry when his wings fold away into nothingness. His spine thanks him for the sudden lack of two thousand feathers when he jams it against one of the door handles. 

He shifts off it with a wince, reaching back over his shoulder with one hand, as if to confirm that they’re really  _ gone. _

“I’ll give you one extra month to get my teardrop, angel,” he purrs, “because I’m generous.” 

“Magnanimous,” Jason mutters under his breath. 

“Clock’s ticking, angel,” Constantine warns, tapping his bare wrist. “You’ve had plenty of time by my watch. Don’t waste any more of it.” 

“I only got back on the planet a month ago-” 

“Planet?” Constantine interjects, cutting Jason off. “You trying to tell me Heaven and Hell as we know them are planets in our universe?” 

Jason frowns. “You’ve been there, you would know.” 

Constantine waves a flippant hand. “Yeah, but I take the shortcut. Doesn’t mean I know where the wormhole comes out at the other end. Does this mean if Kal-El were to travel far enough, he’d come across the Heaven planet?” 

Jason winces and makes a complicated facial expression. “It’s less of a where and more of a when.” 

“A when,” Constantine repeats, and Jason hates this. He’d barely been in Heaven for five minutes before he’d caused enough of a ruckus that the All had been inclined to fulfill his demand to be booted out of the pearly gates. A comprehensive understanding of the interplanetary nuances of Heaven and Hell are a little fuzzy around the edges for him. 

Jason leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms. “Heaven’s a state of being, not a physically manifested place. It’s sort of everywhere, but not right now. And also all the time. It’s Heaven,” Jason offers at Constantine’s unsatisfied crook of brow. 

“So if it’s a state of being, a time,” Constantine clarifies, “does that mean it’s happening everywhere at once? Even on Earth?” 

Jason nods. “As far as I understand it. Moving in mysterious ways and all that.” 

“So, angel, do you know what that’s worth?” Constantine asks, and Jason has exactly three seconds for his frown to devolve into a scowl before the Brit croons, “Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!” 

“You’re a prick,” Jason grits out without the vehemence it deserves. Constantine chortles. 

“Still can’t believe you’re back, kid,” he admits, leaning back up against the counter as Jason hunts down two new mugs and sets them on the counter next to the stove. The first wisps of steam are beginning to coil from the kettle’s spout. Jason’s just glad he didn’t clip it with his wings; he doubts a boiling hot, liquid-spewing projectile would have gone down well. 

“You and me both,” Jason mutters, and adjusts the pot fretfully. Constantine watches the motions with a piercing stare. 

His voice is uncharacteristically solemn when he asks, “Was it worth it?” Jason glances up, and the Brit clarifies, “What you gave up - was it worth it? For  _ them _ ?” 

“For them?” Jason reiterates, and nods once. “Absolutely. I’d make the same choice, every time. They’re worth more to me than an eternity in Heaven.” 

Constantine lets out a low whistle, turning back to the dining table. “Must really love that family of yours, angel.” 

Jason lifts the screaming kettle from the stove, filling the tea pot, and tries to ignore the way his chest laces tight with the words. He doesn’t grace that with an answer, and the Brit rolls his eyes, muttering something about bats and familial ties. Then he fixes a sharp eye on Jason. 

“I want that teardrop.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” 

“Heaven wanted me to pass on a message too,” Constantine says casually as he collects his book. Jason fixes him with a wary look. 

“What sort of message?" 

“The ‘stop stalling and complete your mission’ kind.” 

Jason winces. “They’re getting impatient, huh?” 

Constantine surveys him, shuffling a cigarette between his lips as he slides the novel into his coat pocket. He doesn’t light it. “What’s got an angel’s conscience all tied up in a knot?” 

Jason’s shoulders stiffen, his glare smouldering as he watches the tea steep. “He’s just a kid.” 

“He’s a prophet,” Constantine points out. 

“Not yet,” Jason whispers earnestly, and it sounds like a plea. 

“Angel, he’s already a prophet. Whether you tell him he is or not, I guarantee he’s already started manifesting miracles. At his age, if he’s anything like me, he’s already getting visions. I would be surprised if he hasn’t already undergone a trial by now.” 

Jason tries not to wallow in the pit of guilt and worry that yawns wide within him. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

* * *

Jason leans his hips up against the edge of the conference table, crosses his arms over his chest, and resolves not to draw too much attention. Below him, sitting on the steps that lead up from the Cave proper, Dick and Tim are arguing over a report balanced on their knees as they undress, pausing every time they shuck an article to stab at the incomprehensible lines triumphantly. 

He wants to tell them it doesn’t matter. He wants to tell them they have better things to argue over. He wants to tell them that their time is scarce and short, and the afterlife is a pale comparison when you can’t spend it with the people who matter most to you. 

Jason doesn’t. He sinks his nails into his biceps and doesn’t. 

He can’t tell them, he  _ can’t. _ They wouldn’t believe him anyway; between their distrust of every last word that falls from his lips, and their own special flavours of judgemental self-assigned guilt, Jason doesn’t want to give them more ammunition. 

Playing up the role of Gotham’s latest turned-hero vigilante, now that he’s scoured the Narrows of every last demon’s influence, seems like the safest course of action. And he can weather the prickling scepticism, the surreptitious glances and distrustful sentiment that underscores every conversation. Hurts less than Falling did. 

He’d… he’d do it again. Falling. In a heartbeat. 

Because he’s happier here, shunned and disregarded by his family, than he had been up there, unable to lift a finger to help them when they needed him. Time didn’t translate well in Heaven; in a dimension where everything happens simultaneously and always, five minutes inside the pearly gates had translated to a whole three years lost here. Three years he wasn’t able to help them. Three years he was never going to get back. 

It’d taken him five minutes to convince the All that he was needed more down here than he’d ever be up there. That he understood the consequences of his actions. That he understood the permanence of his choice. That he understood there was no recourse for Falling. 

Jason would tear out his wings feather by feather to do it again. 

He shifts, pushes off the table as he tries to work down the thick sensation in his throat, and doesn’t miss how Tim and Dick’s gazes flick over him when he turns towards the locker room. It’s not empty, as he had hoped; Damian’s sitting on one of the benches, vambraces resting beside him. 

He’s frowning at the wraps around his forearms, unbinding them with an almost dazed discipline. When he stops completely, Jason draws to a halt too. 

Damian’s gaze is fixed on the lockers in front of him, shoulders terse and rigid as he stares. There’s nothing particularly interesting about them, the metal dented and pockmarked from years of abuse at the hands of vigilantes. But Jason understands when he draws closer, plants himself behind the frozen teenager, and follows his line of sight. 

The rupture isn’t solid, won’t ever be solid, not for a Fallen. Not in the poignant way it would be for a prophet. But Jason can still feel the sear of unbearable heat on his bared skin, smell the pungent stench of sulphur curling in his nostrils, see the bright flashes of collision and creation and collapse flickering through the void of time and space. Can sense the violence of Damian’s shudder, before he forcibly jerks his gaze down to his clenched fists. Doesn’t move, other than to squeeze his eyes shut firmly, and refocus on his wraps. 

Jason doesn’t know what compels him to do it - maybe pity, maybe sympathy, maybe  _ empathy _ \- but he wraps a hand around the boy’s shoulder and imparts what little comfort he’s able to. 

Damian doesn’t shrug out from under his touch, and that says more than it ever should. 

“It’ll get better,” Jason murmurs, half-hoping the teenager won’t hear him. 

“Will it get less intense, or will I just get used to it?” Damian replies hoarsely. 

Jason clenches his jaw, and forces it to unwind. “It’ll get better,” he repeats. 

“No one else has noticed the wings,” Damian mumbles, and Jason starts, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder. Constantine’s glamour is holding; there’s no wings to draw attention to, nothing to reveal what he is to his detective family, other than perhaps a darker shadow than he bore before. 

Makes sense that a prophet, who can glimpse through time and space, would be able to see his wings regardless. Jason sighs. “No one else can see them.” 

The teenager’s shoulders slump. “Then why do I have to? I wasn’t- This wasn’t part of my training. Mother said- She never mentioned anything like  _ this.  _ Does she know? Is this her doing? Or is it something else?” 

Jason can feel his features rearranging themselves into a complicated grimace at the mention of Talia. He’d spent time with her and her delightful father when he’d first been delivered back to Earth, albeit three years out of his own time. It was fairer to say that Jason now had more in common with Ra’s than he did with Bruce, but that didn’t mean he liked the man with any decent bone in his body. Fallen didn’t historically get along well anyway, so it was hardly anything revolutionary that he had high-tailed it out of Ra’s territory as soon as he had even marginally recovered from Falling. 

Learning about Talia’s - about  _ Damian’s _ heritage - was a surprise though. And more than a little infuriating, if Jason was being honest. Of course the Powers That Be would choose a Nephilim as their next prophet. And the Nephilim offspring of Jason’s former mentor no less. 

Sometimes Jason thinks the universe just likes to screw with him. 

He honestly doesn’t know if Talia knows Damian’s divine purpose. Doesn’t know if Ra’s is even aware. It wouldn’t surprise him if they did, but… 

Jason squeezes the teenager’s shoulder. “Doesn’t really matter, does it, kid?” 

Damian coils a hand absently through the air, gesturing to the lockers. “They keep getting… more intense. Solid. I can- I can  _ feel _ them now, not just see them. Almost like I’m there, like I’m-” He pauses and swallows, face drawn. Then he lowers his green gaze to his knees. “I’d just like to know what I’m supposed to do about it,” he mumbles. 

Jason wishes he could bring Constantine in on this, give the kid a little guidance, a little certainty in his future. The other prophet would have to have a better handle on this than Jason can ever hope to offer. But Heaven has strict rules about prophets interacting; something about purity of message or some other crock of shit. And if Heaven Wills It, that means it’s out of the picture for Jason. 

He draws in a heaving breath, and swings a leg over the bench to sit next to Damian. “Look, you don’t really have to  _ do _ anything about it. The visions will keep coming. They’ll start taking on a bit more of a form. You’ll start to notice a pattern. Just write down whatever you see.” 

Damian’s face scrunches, eyes pinching, so Jason amends. 

“Or draw it. You like painting, right? So paint them. Whatever comes easiest to you. And then, at some point, you’ll be Contacted. And you just hand over your drawings, and then you’re done.” 

Damian eyes him warily. “And the visions stop?” 

Jason winces and tilts his head. “I- I don’t actually know, sorry kid. That was above my paygrade.” At Damian’s dejected expression, Jason nudges his shoulder. Notes when Damian hisses as it jostles at a gash down the inside of his bicep. “But at least you know you’ll be off the hook after that.” 

That soothes some of his pained grimace, and Jason lets him digest that as Damian reaches for the first aid kit stashed beneath the bench, rifling through for a patch of gauze and cotton to staunch his wound. 

“When do I get Contacted?” 

“No clue.” 

“How will I  _ know _ I’m being Contacted?” 

Jason pictures the ten-thousand eyes and the forty wings, and snorts. “You’ll know, trust me. It’s not something you can misconstrue.” 

Damian’s lips thin as he tears open the plastic and rolls his sleeve further up to expose his dark, warm skin. Jason can feel the heat of him radiating through his own clothing. Not that Jason  _ needs _ the sort of reinforced kevlar his mortal siblings require. Benefits of being a semi-immortal presence is that he can get away with more casual duds now. 

“Do I have to have the visions? Can’t I just block them out?” 

“If you don’t, they’ll send down their version of a tutor to coach you. So best to keep up with your homework, kiddo.” 

“So what are you, then?” 

Jason shrugs as casually as he can manage. He can still feel his stomach knotting at the question. “Something else. Your bodyguard, in a pinch. Heaven and I didn’t, uh, didn’t exactly agree on my Divine Purpose. So I bargained for a do-over. Got what I asked for, I guess.” 

“Do  _ I _ have to go to Heaven?” Damian asks, and Jason considers. 

“I know you have to go through trials before you’re a full-fledged prophet. So I imagine you’ll spend some time there, yeah.” 

Damian swallows, his small hands clenching on the bandage. Jason watches the way it crumples. “Do I have to go to Hell?” he asks in a tentative, hesitant voice that shreds through Jason’s compassion. 

He doesn’t want to lie to the kid, though. “Maybe,” he answers. 

Damian’s expression pinches. “Again?” 

Guilt spirals up through Jason, suffocating. He shifts his weight, curling his toes in his boots as he glances down to the tile. “I don’t know.” 

He wishes he could reassure Damian. Tell him that he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do, that he doesn’t have to go anywhere he doesn’t want to go. But Free Will comes with a lot of fine print, and Jason can’t stand to build the kid’s hopes up for something he knows he won’t ever see. 

Damian drags in a shuddering breath, and then sets his jaw with a modicum of determination, nodding. “Okay.” Then he looks up to meet Jason’s gaze. “Are you staying?” 

This time Jason does wince. “I can’t promise anything, kid. I wasn’t exactly welcomed back by the family with open arms.” 

“But you Fell for them, right?” Damian asks with a frown, and Jason remembers just how damn perceptive Damian is, how he can connect dots that take even Tim ages to correlate. “That’s what you gave up? They’ve got to understand what you sacrificed for them. You have to  _ tell _ them-” 

Jason shakes his head swiftly. “Not gonna happen, kid. They don’t need to know. They won’t take it well, not after…” He swallows, the grit of a smoldering warehouse pungent on the back of his tongue. “Not after what happened. They don’t need any extra guilt. Besides,” he adds, and offers the most genuine smile he can muster, “it’s better this way. I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder with being a prophet and all.” 

Damian flinches, and Jason’s smile dissipates. His tone is small and tentative, laced with aching concern when he asks, “Are you going to tell Father?” 

Jason pauses to survey Damian’s tight expression, his terse hesitancy. “Do you want me to tell him?” When Damian can’t seem to summon an answer to that question, Jason amends to, “Do you want him to know?” 

“Do you think he’ll be disappointed?” Damian asks, and Jason starts. 

“Disappointed?” 

Damian’s lip curls in self-admonishment. “I get the impression that being a prophet is somewhat of a full-time designation, with its own obligations and responsibilities.” 

Jason doesn’t correct him, and Damian sighs. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to uphold his crusade in Gotham if I’m to be this… prophet. I know how much it means to him,” Damian adds, nails biting into the gauze, “for me to take on this mantle, to uphold his legacy one day. I don’t- I can’t disappoint him.” 

Jason tries to imagine what that would look like, a prophet-vigilante on the streets of Gotham. Tries to picture if Heaven would be inclined to intervene, to force Damian to fulfil his duties as their chosen vessel. To rob him of being Robin, of flying through the city overhead, of doling out  _ justice _ where it was so sorely due. It fills him with abrupt anger. 

“Look, kid,” he says sternly, a determined scowl developing on his features when Damian looks up at him, unfocused. “Maybe I’m not the best role model for this, but my instinct is to tell you to do whatever matters most to  _ you. _ Not Heaven or Bruce, or even your mother or the League. Do what you want to do with your life, kid, and screw the consequences. I’m living proof that Heaven offers do-overs, and if they’ve got an issue with me  _ or _ you, then they can come through me first.” 

Damian blinks, startled, and then he softens. Jason thinks he recognises the first hints of relief on the teenager’s features. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, and his lips twist wryly. “Fight Heaven?” 

“Heaven  _ and _ Hell for you,” Jason assures him. “For any of you - Dick, Tim, Bruce, everyone. I’d move the whole damn universe.” 

Damian smiles, soft and small, and looks down to apply the gauze to his arm. It’s a while, almost long enough that Jason shifts to rise from the bench, when Damian says, “You’re a good man, Todd.” 

Jason can summon a million reasons to disagree with that statement, can feel them building with bruising pressure in the thick of his throat. But he smiles, and drags a palm over Damian’s hair, ignoring when he hisses and ducks from under it. 

“Sure thing, kid.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Angel™ who's trying His Best. 
> 
> Jason always struck me as a self-sacrificing type, and literally rejecting grace to be with his family <strike>and not telling them about what he gave up to be with them</strike> seemed very on-brand to me. Thank you to the Prompter for suggesting this interesting AU for me to play around with :)


	9. Feather Your Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** Gen 
> 
> **Relationship:** \- 
> 
> **Characters:** Jason Todd, Slade Wilson 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Female Jason Todd, All Caste (DCU), Training, Knives, Swords, Psychic Abilities 
> 
> **Words:** 2116 
> 
> **Summary:** Slade Wilson is a man of refined skill with a wealth of knowledge. When he comes looking to expand his mercenary repertoire for a recent job, Jay's surprised to find him at her door.

Jay’s tall for her age, her build a little more dedicated than some of the other women she’s seen. Bigger than some of the other vigilantes - Bats and Birds included - too. Doesn’t change the fact that Slade Wilson is nearly a head taller than her and built like a goddamn brick wall for how immovable he is. 

She can feel his bulk pressed against her back, hovering in unnerving proximity. She can _ feel _ the smug curl of his smile, the way his muscle shifts behind her, lazy and slow, as if to emphasise just how in control he is. How generous he’s being, when she knows just how quickly that arm could be crooked across her throat, that calf sweeping her ankles out from under her. 

The hairs on the back of Jay’s neck prickle, and she tenses as he shifts closer, head arching down to murmur something into her ear. Jay doesn’t wait a second longer, veins singing with the threat of his presence. 

A cant of her wrist and Slade stills, a huff of air filtering over the cheek Jay has turned towards him. Slade tilts his head back an inch, exposing more of his faintly stubbled skin in an acquiescent retreat. 

Jay follows through, digging the tip of the small knife deeper into the flesh of his thigh, skimming towards the femoral artery she knows she’ll find buried there. 

“Easy, birdy,” Slade rumbles in his low timbre. “I’m here at my own behest.” 

“That’s a cheap platitude, coming from a mercenary,” she snaps, and doesn’t relinquish her grip on the knife. 

“But true nonetheless,” he counters. 

This was supposed to be a safehouse - emphasis on _ safe _. As in, not known to any of the vigilantes and mercenaries that plague Jay’s life. As in, free for Jay to enjoy some peace and quiet without a threat like Slade Wilson sneaking up on her while she’s nose deep in a new book. 

“What do you want?” 

“A favour.” 

“What _ sort _ of favour?” 

“Training.” When Jay’s brows rise in dubiety, he clarifies, “Training of a very specific nature.” 

She doesn’t retract the blade. “I’m pretty sure you and I both read the same handbooks, Slade. We both dabbled in less-than-heroic arts. And you’ve got, what, thirty? Forty years on me?” 

His single blue eye glints with an unspoken chastisement. “Don’t push your luck,” he advises in a deep thrum. 

“I’m just saying,” she points out with ease, “I don’t think there’s much I can offer you that you don’t already know. So I’m finding it hard to believe that Deathstroke the Terminator would come to _ me _ for _ training._” 

“There were no other teachers available,” Slade admits, and _ now _ his request is beginning to make sense. 

“Not available because they’re too moral or not available because they just don’t like putting up with your snark?” 

“Not available because they’re dead,” he corrects, and Jay grunts high in her throat. 

“Very incentivising.” Jay smirks to herself, before pressing firmly, “What training?” 

“It was part of your League training, back when-” 

“You’ve trained with the League too,” Jay cuts in bluntly, and Slade looks irritated for the briefest moment at being interrupted. 

“Wasn’t the League who taught you, girl,” Slade replies, his tone cold. He glances down at the knife still tracing the inside of his thigh pointedly, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jay withdraws it. 

Doesn’t sheath it back in her sleeve just yet. “Not sure who you’ve been talking to, but other than the Bat himself and the League-” 

“I want your All-Caste training,” Slade snaps bluntly, and Jay pauses, thumb stroking the hilt of the knife as she thinks. Digs a nail into the head of a screw on the switchblade. 

“What All-Caste training?” she settles on, and Slade looks infinitely less patient than he did a second ago. He takes a stride forward, gliding across the kitchen tile with lethal grace, and Jay’s grip shifts on the blade, concern flitting up to lodge in her throat as he keeps advancing. “Slade. _ Slade._” 

A hand flashes out, and Jay reacts on instinct, hunching down and canting sideways as she arches the blade up towards his face. It skims past his cheek, ineffectual, as that fist wraps over Jay’s bicep. She feels the tap of a steel-capped boot against her ankle and shifts her weight to counter when Slade tries to topple her with a standard League manoeuvre. 

Jay ends up on top of Slade, pressing his much larger frame back against the counter as much as she’s overbalanced onto him, grip steady on her switchblade even when her knees threaten to buckle at the haphazard stance. She leans deeper into the pin, lip curling back as her pulse spikes in her eardrums. 

“I’m willing to pay you,” Slade says around the blade hitched against his windpipe. He’s aggravatingly unfazed, as if he doesn’t think Jay’s capable of killing him, right now. “Name your price.” 

“I don’t want money,” Jay answers, and Slade doesn’t waver. 

“Name your price,” he repeats. 

“I don’t-” 

“Doesn’t have to be money, girl,” Slade cuts in sharply, impatient. “I have skills to trade too.” 

Jay glares. “I don’t _ need _ any of your skills, Slade. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of things myself. And I think my training is more than adequate to get the job done.” 

Slade shifts slightly, changing their balance, and Jay shifts her stance wider to counter. The blade bites a tiny degree deeper, drawing a speck of blood as Slade asks, “Would it comfort you to know that my mark is one of your beloved All-Caste’s sworn enemies?” 

Jay pauses. “You’re hunting an Untitled?” 

Slade nods, once. His single blue eye is calculating where it holds Jay’s gaze. 

“Just the one? Or are there more?” she presses. 

“If there are more, I’m certain my employer will insist on their eradication,” Slade replies coolly. “I’m assuming you have a personal stake in this?” 

Contrary to popular belief, Jay’s not an enormous fan of Slade’s ‘there’s a price for everything’ policy when it comes to taking on assassination contracts. When one of those contracts involves the serum-enhanced Terminator eradicating a centuries old force of chaos and evil from the face of the earth… Needless to say Jay’s morals have always strayed further into the gray than her more righteous siblings. 

Jay withdraws the blade an inch, straightening as she says, caged, “Your employer, did they specify any conditions on the contract? Anonymity?” 

“It’s preferred,” Slade allows. 

She chews that over, running her tongue over her teeth. “Alright then. When you kill them, tell them Ducra sent you.” 

Slade arches a white brow, lifting a finger to brush the knife away from his throat. “You have a certain fondness for revenge, don’t you, girl?” 

“Like you said, it’s personal,” she answers, stepping back and extending a hand to pull him up to his feet. He slides gracefully back up to his full height without evening reaching for the aid, and Jay rolls her eyes as she sheathes the switchblade. “So what exactly are you stipulating in this ‘training’ of yours?” 

“My understanding was that one needed to possess the All-Blades to mortally injure an Untitled.” 

Jay inclines her head, but crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s a bit more complicated than just _ possessing _ the All-Blades. They’re not just some magical artefacts that you can acquire. They take practice, skill, to summon. And beyond that, an appreciation of their purpose; you need to be able to appreciate the intimacy of death. What it’s like to take another’s life, to gift them that death.” 

Slade’s tone is hard, but not stifling. “You think I don’t appreciate the intimacy of death? Think who you’re talking to, girl.” 

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Jay replies evenly, and shifts to shuck her jacket from her shoulders. If she’s going to be training a powerhouse like Slade, she wants to give herself the most mobility possible. She drapes it over the back of a dining chair, stepping into a clear area on the timber and waiting for Slade to follow. “I’m saying you may not be able to appreciate it as much as someone who’s, you know, _ died._” 

Slade glances at her chest once, sharp gaze lacerating the coiling red tattoo that follows the lines of her autopsy scar, that stretches from the corners of her clavicles to the dip of her navel. Then it lifts as he strides forward, and Jay exhales. 

“I’m not saying yes,” she hedges with a note of warning, and rolls her shoulders as Slade shucks his gloves, “until I’ve got a feel for how you learn. I’m not even sure I’m the right person to teach you this.” 

“You’re the _ only _ person to teach me this,” Slade reminds her as he layers efficiently down to a few layers sans armour. “But I can accommodate your discretion.” 

Jay’s lips twist in a smirk as she crosses to the mantle and unhooks on of the old, beaten blades on display there. “How generous of you,” Jay allows, and tosses it in his direction, watching the confident roll of muscle when he snatches it out of the air. Seeing Slade Wilson work really is something to behold. 

He surveys the weapon with an air of mild disdain. “What would this be?” 

“An All-Blade,” Jay replies, turning its twin in her grip. The weight is familiar, snug in her palm as she settles opposite the man. 

“You keep the All-Blades above your fireplace,” Slade returns with immense dubiety, “in your living room.” 

Jay shrugs. “Hidden in plain sight. No one’s batted an eyelid till now.” 

“I’m curious as to exactly how these are supposed to be the ancient, fabled All-Blade,” Slade admits as he studies the dull metal. He fixes a piercing blue eye on Jay. 

She smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Think of them like training wheels.” Slade casts her a look that’s unimpressed, and Jay’s smirk slides into a full-blown grin. “Unless you can magically summon an All-Blade without needing the base sword; but if you knew that, you wouldn’t be coming to me now, would you?” 

“Play it up while you can, girl,” Slade advises, and settles into a light stance, grip falling into a natural set on the blades’ handles. 

Jay shifts her own blade, surveying the set of his shoulders, the space of his hips. He’s League-trained, definitely; his technique is immaculate in the same way that Damian’s is, all sharp disciplined lines just like her. Jay doesn’t doubt Slade can hold his own in combat. He could probably outshine Jay any damn day of the week. That’s not the issue. 

“I don’t think I can teach you this,” Jay admits after a moment of studying him. 

Slade doesn’t flinch. “I’m a very intuitive learner.” 

“Well, I can show you the technique. But you’re not going to be able to summon the All-Blades until you undergo the trials. You’d have to bathe in the Acres of All, at least.” 

“I don’t appreciate the stalling, girl.” 

Jay shoots him a dark look. “I’m just warning you. It takes a lot of stamina to use the All-Blades.” 

Slade rolls his shoulders, emphasising his bulk, his serum-enhanced strength. “I’m sure I’m capable.” 

“It’s not about physical perseverance, Slade. It’s about mental fortitude.” 

“You don’t think I have mental fortitude?” 

“Not as far as I’ve seen. You’re a temperamental man, Slade. You’re disciplined, sure; so is Bruce. But that’s not enough for the All-Caste to grant you access to the pools.” 

“But _ you _ have mental fortitude.” 

Jay lifts her chin, holds his gaze with every fibre of certainty and purpose in her body. “Yeah, I do. Getting pulverised by a psychopathic clown tends to give you special mental fortitude brownie points.” 

“You think the All-Caste chose you because you were victimised? Because you _ earnt _ it?” 

“I think the All-Caste chose me because I needed a purpose. I didn’t understand death then. Even as someone who had experienced it, I didn’t _ understand _ it until Ducra showed me. I owe her my life, for that.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so humble, kid.” 

Jay snorts. “Yeah, you should’ve seen me back then. Ducra handed me my ass on my first day. Really set the tone for our relationship, lemme tell you.” 

It’s not a smirk that curls Slade’s lips, but it’s definitely amused, cracking that eternal scowl for a moment. Then it settles back into his impassive mask. “Enough chit-chat, girl. Are you prepared to train me or not?” 

Jay grips her blade, a grin spreading slowly across her features. “An invitation to hand Slade Wilson’s ass to himself? _ Absolutely._” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a crash course in Jason's All-Caste arc and gave it my best shot. 
> 
> I imagine there's not a lot of martial arts forms that Slade hasn't at least tried, and I see a lot of great fics with Slade mentoring Jason - so I wanted to flip those tables for once. Makes for an interesting dynamic. Thanks to the Prompter for giving me the opportunity!


	10. Constellate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Established Relationship, Developing Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Domestic, Aged-Up Character(s), Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death 
> 
> **Words:** 2250 
> 
> **Summary:** Jason and Tim parted ways amicably enough. But they've never felt as comfortable with anyone else as they had with each other. So they try, and try again.

They meet on a rooftop, as they always seem to do. 

It’s not the same as the one they’d first met on, back when Jason was raw and abraded, and Tim was a crutch for a man they were both indebted to. 

They’ve come a long way since then, both of them. They’re… better now; not whole, not yet, but better than they were. Better friends, better people. Better at voicing their wants, better at demanding their needs. They don’t fold into one another like they did before, melding until neither could be sure where the other started. They settle now, one stone against another, unyielding but not immovable. 

It had been stilted at first, the reconnect jarring in that way that unfamiliar things often are. When they’d tried again, it hadn’t been seamless. Neither of them had expected it to be, but it had been confronting nonetheless, to realise how little they knew about one another now, how much they had left to relearn. 

Their first fight is over something inane and trivial, and something not. Something unspeakable, wrapped in something easier to digest, easier to fight over. Both of them are so good with words, it’s a wonder they never seem to find them in times like these. 

Tim’s the first to walk out, to swallow down the words that are bruising his lips and leave Jason to stew in his harsh assertions. Finds himself halfway down the hall before Jason’s tumbling after him, contrite and remorseful. Before Jason’s hands are on him, hesitant and desperate, so much different from when they were younger. When Jason’s hands had held him down on a rooftop, crumbling around the foundations of himself, burying his fury down into Tim’s gaping ribcage. 

So Tim lets him take them back to their apartment, soothe him down with an apology whimpered into the skin of Tim’s stomach, bubbling out around soft kisses and softer tears. He presses Tim back together with calloused palms, holds in his edges and the parts of him that want to rattle free of his being. The parts of him he doesn’t consider worthy of Jason, worthy of Bruce, worthy of himself. The broken, insufficient pieces that don’t ever seem to settle in Tim’s mortar, shifting free of his foundations. 

They’re so good at holding each other together, sometimes Tim forgets how long it’s been since they’ve been apart. 

* * *

Jason loves rainstorms. Tim will wake sometimes in the dead of night to find him sitting out on their balcony in his boxer briefs and singlet, safe beneath the eaves and unfazed by the cold. Turn over in bed to watch him suck down a cigarette long and slow as he watches the storms roll in over Gotham like a vigilant protector. 

Sometimes Tim sits with him, long sleeves tugged down over his palms and cradled between the heat of Jason’s crooked legs, the heavy, comforting weight of a cheek pressed against his crown. He can understand the appeal then, lose himself in the roil and thrash of distant thunder, far beyond them, far behind them. 

“See that, Gerty?” he’ll murmur into the tips of Tim’s fringe, his breath tickling and warm on his forehead. His fingers trail lazily across the splatter-slicked tile beside him, stroking. Tim watches the soothing rivulets his digits make. “Storm over Bludhaven. Dickie’ll be getting his feet wet.” 

Tim won’t mention his childhood friend, inanimate though it may have been. Jason’s long since grown out of caring what others think of his murmurings, has stopped being bothered by the curious looks and the astute corrections. When they do come, he takes them with a shrug and goes back to sucking down his cigarette, talking aloud to ease the aches in his soul. 

He’d offered to get Jason a chair the first time he’d found him out on the balcony; something for him to sit on in the cold, but Jason had turned him down. Had said that it reminded him of when he was a kid, perched high above the city skyline with the gargoyles, watching the thick black clouds roll towards him. 

He likes it better from here, he says. It’s not as high up, but the storms move westward here, and he can watch them pass without concern for their downpour. He doesn’t mind the rain so much now, knows it’s inevitable, knows it will pass too. So Tim stays cradled in the warmth of him and dozes to the low murmur of Jason’s chatterings, soothed by the wash of the storm far off and receding. 

* * *

Tim has never dealt with grief well. It’s one of the man’s very few triggers. 

Jason finds Tim, not in the Cave as he had expected, but in Bruce’s study. The one upstairs, adjacent to the library, furnished with sleek ergonomic fountain pens and crisp sheets of unblemished paper. Tim’s leaned back in Bruce’s leather chair, turning something over in his hands as he stares at the bookshelves, and stares at nothing. 

He hesitates on the threshold to watch the torchlight play over Tim’s drawn features, trying to glean exactly what mood he’s in. It’s hard to say, but Jason likes to think he’s spent enough time around his lover to recognise the tight clench of his jaw that precedes tears. 

Tim doesn’t need coddling, hasn’t ever needed it, really. Jason has no doubts that most of his early patrols with Bruce had been spent leading the elder man around his own city, keeping the train on its tracks at a time when Bruce was grief-stricken and borderline non-communicative. Much like his mentor, Tim has never outwardly responded well to any attempt that he would perceive as belittling his emotions. Not when rationality has been all that’s kept him together all these years. 

So Jason slides down to sit on his heels when he reaches the chair, letting his hands hang loose in his lap and fixing his gaze patiently on Tim. It’s a waiting game, and Jason has time in spades. 

When Tim eventually shifts to look at him, his expression an odd facade of chastising and irritated, Jason notes the red rim of his eyes, the pale tracks over his cheekbones, and the barest tremble of his chewed lips. He has the sudden odd, out-of-place impression that Tim will always look youthful with his angular features, even when he’s as aggrieved as he is. 

Jason draws in a steady breath - waits until Tim mirrors the motion - and then asks, “Can I get you a drink, stiff or otherwise?” 

Tim’s lips twitch in a choked smile that’s swiftly abandoned when he turns back to staring at the unmoving shelves. But his hand slides past the leather to squeeze around Jason’s rising fingers, so it’s an improvement. 

“I’m not going to make you talk,” Jason promises softly, and Tim nods once in acknowledgement, “I just want you to know you’re not alone.” 

It’s not instantaneous. It takes time, as - Jason’s learnt - most things do. He’s watching for it, which is the only reason he sees the storm roll over Tim’s features like rain over the plains; soft, inevitable, and growing to an all-consuming crescendo. It starts with the barest tremble in Tim’s lower lip, dancing along the dip of his vermillion, and grows until he’s caving inwards, wrapping himself in his own limbs as if he’ll shake apart with the force of his sobs. 

Jason rises then, to embrace him, to press him together, to hold him steady, as Tim heaves and wails inconsolably into Jason’s shoulder. 

At some point Jason migrates to the chair, shuffling the smaller man into his lap and cradling him until he quietens to silent streams of tears, nose buried against Jason’s collarbone. His knee is pressing a bruise into Jason’s ribs, but for the moment he doesn’t mind the concession. 

“Want that drink now?” Jason mumbles into the crown of his dark hair, and smiles when Tim nods sullenly. Jason’s got shuffling his lover around down to a fine art now; settling him both around the commitments in Jason’s life and into his home had been less jarring than Jason had expected. He’s used to Tim’s weight now, familiar with the burdens he carries, just as Tim is familiar with his own. 

Tim settles back against him when he returns from the cabinet with five fingers of scotch between them, rolling the tumbler between his palms as he inhales the peated notes. Jason doesn’t push him; he’s happy to bask in their mentor’s lingering memory in silence, drink down the genuine pieces of Bruce that they’d been lucky enough to see. 

“Miss him already,” Jason admits softly, lips brushing the back of Tim’s ear. The smaller man’s fingers contract where they’re playing with the coarse curls at Jason’s hairline, a tight breath pressing from his lungs. 

“Yes,” Tim agrees, and if his words are hoarse, Jason doesn’t comment on it. He looks a little forlorn as his blue eyes track the untouched books, remnants of the man sticking sharp in his mind’s eye. Jason lifts his free hand to squeeze Tim’s elbow, turns to press a whiskey-slicked kiss to his temple. “Big shoes.” 

“Hmm?” Jason hums, letting his eyes slip closed as he inhales the smell of Tim’s conditioner, empty tumbler lolling in his slack grip. 

“Big shoes to fill,” Tim comments hollowly, and Jason cracks an eye to survey him. He looks young, in the way that children who are afraid of the dark look young. 

Jason shifts and tucks his arm tight around Tim’s ribcage, holds him tighter together. “Lucky he’s got plenty of us to fill them,” he replies, and doesn’t let go until he feels Tim exhale. 

* * *

They both like secrets. That’s never been a surprise to anyone who’d known them. But they value truth far more, and whilst they haven’t been exactly forthcoming about their relationship over the past few years, this development isn’t something they want to keep from their family. 

“I want to be the one to tell Damian,” Tim warns, shuffling the name tags on the large diorama in front of them. “Do you think I should invite Ra’s, just to make Damian sit at the same table as him?” 

Jason layers his palm over the back of Tim’s hand, threading his fingers until Tim concedes and squeezes back. He smiles, lifting their entwined fingers to suck a quick kiss into the knuckle beneath Tim’s silver ring. “You are unerringly spiteful when you want to be, baby. Remind me never to get on your bad side.” 

“You’ve  _ been _ on my bad side,” Tim reminds him, but lets him lean forward to amend another designation on the seating plan. He hums contemplatively, not quite disapproving, yet. “Speaking of long-term grudges - Dick, really?” 

“What?” Jason says with a crooked grin, smirking when Tim taps the table his name tag has been assigned to pointedly. “I thought Golden Boy would  _ love _ to catch up with his old beaus.” 

“You specifically sat him with all his exes,” Tim chastises as Jason settles his chin against Tim’s crown. 

“The fact that he has an entire table’s worth of exes means he brought his on himself,” Jason retorts sagely, and lifts off him when Tim squirms. “What’s really up with you?” 

Tim sighs, and settles back against Jason’s bulk, kicking his feet out over the timber floorboards. They’re sitting in the middle of the living room, ten thousand RSVP samples and colour scheme swatches scattered around them. 

He tilts his head back into Jason’s collarbone, humming when his husband presses a coaxing kiss onto Tim’s forehead. “Do you think we should have told them sooner?” 

“You think they’ll take this badly,” Jason interprets, and Tim smiles at how well the man knows him, knows his tells. 

“We haven’t exactly been shouting it from the rooftops,” Tim reminds him wryly. 

Tim can’t see it, but he knows Jason arches a brow. Probably the one that’s just grown its first white hair to match the streak in his fringe. Stress will do that to a person, Tim thinks ruefully, and squeezes Jason’s hand in his when the man speaks. “We’re not allowed one tiny secret in a family of obsessed detectives?” 

Tim snorts softly. “It’s been five years.” 

“I think anything less than a decade is too soon.” 

“Jay,” Tim says solemnly, and leans enough away that he can twist to meet his gaze. “Do you even want to have this wedding?” 

Jason meets his gaze steadily, and Tim studies the strength of his jawline, the crows feet that have settled in the corners of his blue-green eyes. “I don’t need a wedding, Tim. I’ve got you. That’s all I need.” He leans forward to press another kiss to Tim’s hand, this time to his bare palm as he holds his husband’s gaze. “But if this is important to you, then of course I want it. Any chance to share with others how much I adore you, I’d leap at.” 

Tim laughs softly, and tilts his forehead into Jason’s collarbone, lacing fingers through his hairline. “You’re a huge sap, you know that?” 

“Always have been, always will be. That’s what made you fall for me in the first place.” 

Tim smirks, but doesn’t lift his head. “Is that so?” 

“I’ve got the piece of paper to prove it,” Jason murmurs around a grin. 

“And I’ve got you,” Tim answers reverently, and sinks into the patter of Jason’s soft laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love building on relationships with history, and I _really_ love getting to see people work past their differences to try a second time. Makes for a really lovely setting for a relationship to blossom in. Thank you to the Prompter for coming up with an unusual way to approach the JayTim dynamic; I thoroughly enjoyed writing this! <3


	11. To Pass The Impassable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Dick Grayson/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Dick Grayson, Jason Todd 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Dick Grayson, Omega Jason Todd, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Crime Fighting, Intersex Omega, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones 
> 
> **Words:** 5703 
> 
> **Summary:** Dick's working a trafficking case when Jason drops in unexpectedly. He figures a last minute team up can't hurt, especially when the traffickers seem to be on the cusp of a major delivery of heat-inducing drugs. It's not like drugs targeted at omegas are going to have any adverse effects on two hot-blooded alphas, right?

It’s a stalemate. 

Dick knows Jason’s patrolling in Bludhaven. Dick wouldn’t really be able to call himself the city’s vigil if he didn’t. Most of Jason’s territory spans the North end of Gotham, splintering through the cracks and crevices of Crime Alley and the Narrows. It spills over, as most criminal activity seems to, toppling down the greasy food chain of drug dealers and organised crime lords to fall solely in the cesspool that is Bludhaven. 

It’s why Dick’s not surprised when a trafficking ring sets up shop directly on the docks, right beneath his nose. It’s why he’s even less surprised when Jason hits the gangway mere minutes after Dick’s slipped in through the warehouse skylight. 

He pauses when he notices Dick, sharp eyes drawing him out of the inky pitch in a manner that only Bats are trained in. Dick hesitates too, tensing as Jason freezes at the end of the grated walkway. 

He hasn’t spoken with Jason since that bout of world-ending supernaturally gifted extraterrestrial hybrids decided to make Gotham their personal playpen. Not since Jason had knocked him off a balcony to avoid a phaser blast that had nearly taken out half of Dick’s ribcage. Dick’s not sure, “Jesus, _ move_, Circusboy!” counts as conversation when he’s dangling five storeys up, but the only other chatter they've shared that Dick can recall before that was the unfortunate incident with Tim and the knife, and well- 

Dick’s not sure where they stand now. Jason keeps to himself within city bounds; Dick’s pretty sure he’s making an effort to avoid crossing Dick’s favoured patrol routes. It’s… amicable, in an odd way. Every now and then they’ll land on opposite rooftops, and while Dick can’t actually _ see _ anything through that obtuse helmet, he’s pretty sure the nod Jason gives him is a salutation. They may not be on speaking terms, Dick’s willing to concede, but the Bat-and-Bird dossier on ‘acceptable social activities to engage in with excommunicated vigilantes’ doesn’t preclude shaking down a trafficking ring. 

And Dick’s never been one to pass up the offer of a helping hand. So when Jason slides down into a crouch on the gangway, Dick sidles over to him, slick as a shadow in the gloom. 

Jason tenses when he approaches, but Dick just leans into one knee on the metal and fixes his gaze on the figures crossing the polished concrete below. Jason makes a firm point of assessing him before he turns back to join him in watching their progress. 

The warehouse floor is littered with crates upon crates of neatly packed cardboard boxes. Only one of them has been pried open, and Dick’s gaze follows as a huddle of men reach into the straw to unearth a box, flicking open the casing with practiced movements. 

“You here for the vics?” Jason murmurs under his breath, low enough to be mistaken for the errant creak of a beam. A bitterness enters his tone when he clarifies, “Or just here to wrap up the trade?” 

“I’m here to put an end to the whole operation,” Dick answers evenly, not biting. 

Jason hums low in his throat, the precursor to a rumble, and Dick shifts absently in response to that challenge. He’s usually pretty good at holding his own against other alphas with level-headed charm; but this whole situation has got him on edge. 

If it had just been the drug trade, he might have been a little more diplomatic about the whole thing. But then Dick had gotten wind of the organisation’s two-pronged trafficking operation, and he’d insisted on handling this himself. Bludhaven was his turf, afterall, and territorial alpha instincts aside, Dick felt responsible for letting this one slide past him for as long as it had. 

Down on the warehouse floor below, one of the goons is pulling a delicate, stout glass container from the packaging, holding it up to the light. From where they’re crouched above, it looks almost like perfume. The liquid within is a soft golden tone, and the bottle is ornately sculpted into a tapered lid where it rests in the man’s palm. 

“This the latest product?” Dick manages to make out, and another goon grunts an affirmation. The first doesn’t seem all too convinced. “It looks like fucking coloured water. You sure this is it? Does it work? Have you tested it?” 

This gives one of the goons pause, and Dick feels Jason’s tense beside him, coiling in his displeasure. He’s broadcasting his aggression like it’s nobody’s business, and Dick wonders if it’s an oncoming rut that’s bypassing Jason’s usual strategic patience. Dick knows he tends to get pretty antsy himself whenever he’s due on; sometimes it’s better to take a few days and work through his alpha needs before he heads back into the field with a clearer mind. It would make sense for Jason's level-headedness to be compromised if he's on the cusp of a rut and pushing the boundaries of his health as usual. 

The first goon is beckoning the second closer, instructing him to hold out his arm. Jason leans forward an inch when the first sprays a light mist of the product over the man’s exposed skin. Dick’s pretty sure he even holds his breath. 

The second inspects his skin, sniffing once, and then offers, “Maybe it doesn’t work on alphas.” 

The first scoffs. “Would make sense. Wouldn’t want the product infecting the clients, right? Fine, bring out one of the brats.” 

The kid they drag out of one of the back rooms can’t be older than fifteen. Dick’s stomach rolls at the sight of them being manhandled across the warehouse floor, and he doesn’t imagine it when the railing creaks beneath Jason’s constricting grip. 

The kid puts up a decent fight. Kicks and bites and bellows, even as they try to wrench themselves out of the unrelenting grip on their skinny upper arm. They’ve got to be a street brat with that level of malnourishment, and Dicks feels a very specific thread of sympathy twine through him at the thought of what Jason must be seeing down there. Because Dick’s willing to bet his considerable inheritance that that kid was lured from the gutters of Gotham with the promise of a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. They wouldn't be the first. 

“Is it an omega?” the first goon asks once the kid is stood to attention for his inspection. They’re shrinking back into the larger man’s grip, shrivelling beneath that unsympathetic gaze as it drags over them. “You check ‘em? Guess we’ll find out soon enough, right?” 

A chuckle that makes Dick taste bile up in the back of his throat, and a scuffle when the kid tries to bite into their captor’s forearm to duck away. The spray hits them square in the face, inducing a brief coughing fit that takes the kid down to their knees. To Dick’s surprise, the goons don’t make an effort to stop them, unperturbed as the kid scrambles to their hands and knees and staggers towards the most obvious exit. 

They make it four steps before their knees give out and take them to the floor with a low whine of regret. Jason’s next breath catches in his throat, and Dick whispers, “That’s _ fast_.” 

When the kid collapses, loose-limbed, to the concrete and the first goon starts to approach them with a low, eager rumble, Jason slides up to his feet and growls, “That’s our cue.” 

He’s vaulting the railing by the time Dick scrambles after him, landing squarely on the first goon’s shoulder and driving the full force of his bulk into the unyielding ground. The man’s resounding bellow of pain splits the air, but by the time the second goon has fumbled his gun, Jason’s already breaking his collarbone with a swift roundhouse kick. 

Dick slips down to the floor to intercept two more goons trying to rush Jason as he’s wrestling a third, sweeping their legs out from under them. He dispatches the rogues that try to sneak around on Jason’s flank, running interference as he slides into the familiar role that he had with Damian; letting his partner draw the goons to him while Dick flits around the edges of the fight. 

He’s just finished rounding up the last of the stragglers that Jason’s left to him, pulling up beside the other man, when a goons rears out from behind the open crate, and Dick reacts instinctively, hoisting his heel up and slamming in full-force into the man’s gut. 

The man staggers back into the crate, overturning it in his scramble to recover his balance, and upends the contents within. The shatter of a hundred glass bottles is deafening, and Dick flinches when a dense cloud of the aerosol erupts around the man as he slips in the pool of shards. Jason reels back as the cloud expands, but Dick dashes forward through it to take care of the recovering goon. 

The air is dense, thick and cloying in Dick’s lungs, enough to leave a sweet tang on the back of his tongue. But he locates the man through the gloom, taking him down to the concrete with a swift manoeuvre, and straightening to cuff him. Then he turns back, the cloud already dispersing, to drag the man back to their pile of crooks. 

Jason, for once, hangs back while Dick rounds up their cavalcade of goons. It’s unlike him to be so diplomatic, but Dick chalks his hesitance up to concern for the victims, and attends to picking up the last of the brutes while Jason moves the kid to a safer location. He’s back in no time at all, still lingering like a shadow in Dick’s peripheral as he finishes stripping the men of their weapons while they slump unconscious against the unopened crates. 

“Cleaned up this lot,” he announces with a conspiratorial grin. Jason blinks at him, preoccupied, and offers a half-hearted agreement. “This should give the BPD a decent headway on their investigation.” 

“Sure,” Jason answers blandly. 

Dick yanks the cuffs tight a little more viciously than is called for, and dumps the last stirring man in the line up. He lifts his head towards Jason, asking, “You moved the kid?” 

“Yeah,” Jason replies distractedly, and staggers sideways into the base of the upturned crate. 

Dick shoots to his feet, hand outstretched before he realises that might be misconstrued as a threat. Jason rights himself with a glare, batting his hand away with a warning growl. “You okay, Jay?” he tries for instead. 

All at once, the old nickname seems too personal, too intimate for their relationship right now. It’s almost a relief when Jason snaps, “Fuck off, Dickface,” in return. 

Then he goes to straighten, fists tight and unbearably tense, and has to fumble a catch on the crossbeam of the crate when his knees go out from under him. 

Dick wouldn’t call himself Jason’s biggest fan. He’d certainly never given him the time of day when Jason had been younger and Dick had been working through his issues with Bruce. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that he’d gotten caught in the crossfire; but Dick had been younger and angrier at being shouldered out and replaced in his own pack. Had been aggrieved to find that Jason had installed himself as the new pack leader of the Titans, _ Dick’s _ team, Dick's _ pack, _ even though at fifteen the kid had yet to present himself as an alpha. Whether malnutrition or just being a late bloomer, the difference hadn’t eased the betrayal Dick had felt at finding the teenager at Bruce’s side. 

And when Jason, fresh from the grave and sporting a grudge deeper than the scars that now littered his body, had materialised like a spectre in Gotham, threatening Bruce and all but beating Dick’s packmate - his little brother - bloody out of the same misplaced rage, Dick had responded to Jason the same way anyone would respond to a stranger threatening their pack. 

Their stalemate is tentative at best, and a precarious truce at worst, and Dick’s hard-pressed most days to find a reason not to drag Jason to Arkham with his own two fists. 

But Dick’s never been the guy to kick someone when they’re at their lowest, or when they’re down. Getting them down is one thing, but Dick draws the hard line at inflicting senseless violence on an opponent who has surrendered in all but name. 

With the way Jason’s clinging to the lip of the crate like it’s the only thing stopping him from sinking through the concrete, Dick doesn’t think he’s any more of a threat right now than that kid was. 

“Are you alright?” Dick asks, brow pinching in concern as he starts forward again. 

A growl rips up through Jason’s throat, jagged and violent, catching behind his bared teeth. It’s a warning and a threat all wrapped up behind something that’s definitely fear, and Dick immediately begins to scan him for the source of his injury. He’s done this a million times after patrol, checking over his packmates for any lasting lacerations or bruising. It's second nature to drag his sharp gaze over the latches of Jason's sculpted body armour and the curve of material over his broad thighs in search of a wound. 

Jason presses back into the wood, snarling wordlessly when Dick approaches for a better look. 

Dick pauses, scowling. He gets that alphas can be pretty possessive of their personal space, and having another alpha of his size and stature anywhere near his person is probably lighting up all of Jason’s instincts like a switchboard - but Dick’s never compromised health for someone’s comfort before. 

“You’re injured,” he points out bluntly, and tries to take another step forward. It’s met by another sharp snarl, cutting through the tension between them like a whip. “Jason, I need to get close to help you.” 

“Not injured,” Jason presses out from a tight throat, and Dick rolls his eyes. 

“You can drop the macho alpha act around me,” Dick retorts impatiently, and watches panic flash through Jason’s eyes. Dick thinks maybe he’s misstepped for a moment; maybe Jason’s gender is more fragile than he originally suspected. Then he shakes himself and growls, “Christ, Jay, I’m just trying to _ help you_.” 

“Fuck _ off_,” Jason repeats with vitriol, and seems to blanch when Dick demonstrates that he’s not willing to let up off it. He flashes a mouthful of teeth, brows pulling down in their irritation. “Back the fuck off, Circusboy. I don’t need your help.” 

Dick sighs, pausing briefly. “Just let me see it.” 

“_No,_” Jason repeats, shifting to try and get his legs back under him properly. They don’t look like they’ll support his full weight, and Dick wonders with a flare of horror whether he’s caught a stray bullet or an inopportune blade to an important organ. He takes another step forward, closing the dwindling difference with purpose. 

“I can help you, Jay, just let me-” 

“No!” Jason yelps, flooring through two octaves and curling off into a whine. 

Dick freezes, and it snaps off as quickly as it had started, as if Jason’s suddenly, blindingly aware of the noise he’s making. The nock of Jason’s throat bobs as he swallows the sound down with raw, panicked eyes. It’s only now that they’re so close that Dick can _ smell _ him. 

Sweet, fragrant and entirely _ omega _ in a way that suppressors can't mask. The scent is radiating out from Jason's pores, saturating the air between them until Jason is the only thing Dick can taste in his lungs. 

Jason sees when the realisation washes over Dick, because his lips curl back in a snarl, fury bubbling up through his posture. He braces against the crate, shoving Dick backwards as he ducks out of his reach. Dick staggers back a few steps under the force of it, too stunned to resist as Jason skirts the corner of the crate with a growl and capitalises on the opening. 

He doesn’t even get through the first stride, knees buckling as he cascades towards the concrete. Dick leaps into action, snagging his waist even as he ignores the growl Jason levels at him. He lowers Jason to the floor in a controlled descent, letting him catch his weight on his hands and knees before Dick crouches down at his side. 

He presses the flat of his palm into the muscle between Jason’s shoulder blades, grinding circles into the tense flesh even as Jason grumbles a dissent. “Jay, we’ve gotta get you to a safehouse. It’s not safe here; let me take care of you.” 

One of the incapacitated goons stirs groggily where he’s propped up against the crates, drawing Dick’s attention briefly. He glances back in time to see how Jason presses his thighs together, panting hard where he’s kneeling, brow pinched. Dick watches a single bead of sweat trace Jason’s temple, and everything slides into place, finally. 

Dick swivels to glance at the overturned crate, at the innocuous liquid seeping across the warehouse floor. Remembers how Jason had flinched back from the spray like it had burned when Dick had leapt wholeheartedly in. Realises that Jason’s _ much _ more compromised than he’s letting on. 

It’s all the justification Dick needs to dig his shoulder into Jason’s hipbone and flip him over his shoulder as he rises. Jason yelps in protest, the sound curtailing into a low growl that is _ definitely _ alpha threat, and Dick glares and starts for the gangway stairs. 

“Cut it out,” he snarls, low and commanding, and feels Jason flinch. “We’ve got to get you out of here as soon as possible. Now shut up and hold still.” 

Dick’s carried Bruce before, on occasion. Jason’s about the same build, if a few pounds lighter - not that Dick’s back thanks him when he draws a grapnel and hauls them out of the warehouse. Their trek across the rooftops is no easier, not when Jason’s squirming infinitesimally against Dick’s shoulder. Dick tries not to snap at him, because he can feel how Jason’s coiled, as if he’s trying to shirk the effects of the drug in his system. And if he’s trying, then Dick really ought to give him the benefit of the doubt and try to. 

Doesn’t stop Dick being excruciatingly aware of how firm Jason’s thighs are beneath his gloved grip, or the curve of his ass, or the way the omega’s scent is flooding Dick’s nostrils, clinging to him like it’s trying to possess him. 

Dick’s more than a little relieved when he manoeuvres down onto the fire escape outside his bedroom window, jimmying the locks and leaning over to disable the security alarm before he climbs inside. It’s a squeeze, getting the pair of them over the sill without knocking the glass in its frame, but Dick’s more flexible than people give him credit for, and then they’re inside. 

Jason’s panting, low and strained against the curve of his back, one gloved hand fisted into a handful of his suit, right above Dick’s hip. He smiles reassuringly, even though Jason can’t see it, and pats his thigh comfortingly as he crosses the timber floorboards to his unmade bed. 

Dick leans forward to shift his weight onto the mattress, straightening to roll out his shoulder as Jason flops onto the navy covers. “Alright, you’ll be safe here. You can stay for as long as it takes to get that drug out of your system. I’ll make sure none of the Bats or Birds bother you. I can get you some food too. I think the pantry’s empty, but there’s a diner-” 

“_Dick,_” Jason half-moans, half-growls. Dick lapses into silence, glancing down at him where he shifts on the mattress, opening his crooked knees to get comfortable. “You’re doing that shitty overproviding alpha thing. And there’s only one thing I need right now,” he says with a breathless, strangled laugh. 

Dick opens his mouth to protest, and then notices that Jason won’t meet his gaze, fixing it pointedly on the ceiling. His fringe is plastered to his forehead, his pupils blown out wide as he sets his jaw with a force that looks painful, expression pinching as if he’s trying to swallow down a noise or ten. His fists bunch in a handful of the sheets, and Dick’s gaze lowers to watch how his hips roll, arching languorously off the bed. 

“Oh,” Dick says. 

“Yeah,” Jason says guiltily, but it’s high and weak and far too full of that odd half-eagerness Dick’s heard before. The nervous-excited kind that Jason was prone to when he was first learning how to throw himself off buildings. He does that thing with his hips again, and Dick’s startled by the groan that fills the air between them. 

Latches a hand up over his mouth in the next second, because that _ wasn’t _ Jason. 

Jason reacts to it though, chin tilting down until he can fix those wide eyes on Dick, drinking him in. “Alpha,” he breathes, and Dick knows they’re both fucked. 

Dick backs up a step, guilt striking through him when Jason’s brow pinches in betrayal. “Jay,” Dick whines, his heart feeling like it’s trapped up in the top of his throat, making it difficult to speak around the obstruction. He clears his throat and tries to inject some authority into his tone. “Jay, you’re compromised. You’re _ vulnerable_. You’re-” A choked little laugh bubbles past his lips, bordering on hysterical as he rakes a hand back through his hair. “You’re drugged to the damn gills, Jay. I can’t _ do _ that for you while you’re like this.” 

He calms in the minutes that follow, pulse soothed by the steady wash of Jason’s breathing as he stares up at the ceiling. Just when Dick thinks he’s maybe passed out, Jason says, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” 

“What?” Dick yelps, wounded. 

“A hypocrite,” Jason spits, shoving up onto his elbows to fix him with a glare. 

Dick tries to feel offended, but it’s hard to focus when Jason’s curls are stuck so adorably to his forehead, his brow pinched in a pout. “Who-?” 

“_You,_” Jason repeats, hands fisting on the sheets. “You drag me all the way back to your safehouse, _ insist _ on hauling me all the way over here - literally _ into _ your bed - and then you don’t have the _ balls _ to finish the job.” 

Dick blinks. “Ex_cuse- _” 

“You’re a goddamn coward,” Jason snarls, looking flushed, looking wild. His lip curls back from his teeth, chin jerking up haughtily. “Get your fucking ass over here and finish what you started, Dick.” 

Dick’s not sure what compels him to do it. Whether it’s the rattle of Jason’s raw timbre, the flash of a provocation in the depths of his blue-green eyes, the way Dick’s stomach curls at that blatant challenge - issued by an omega no less - he can’t say, but in the next minute Dick’s striding forward and shoving Jason back onto the covers. 

“You’re an asshole,” he snaps, standing over him as Jason laughs hoarsely. “You’re a prick. You come into _ my _ territory, shove your way into _ my _ case, and when I save your ungrateful ass, you have the gall to goad me to- to what? What are you trying to get out of this, Jason? You want me to fight you?” 

Jason’s laughter is tittering, bordering on hysterical as he sprawls aimlessly amongst the sheets. He’s flushed with heat, a blush visible along the ridges of his collarbones and the dip of his neck where his shirt rides low, torn at the collar. It makes irritation ricochet up through Dick, his fists clenching at his sides. 

“You want me to fuck you?” he snaps, and Jason’s mirth cuts off abruptly. 

It saps Dick’s anger like a candle wick in a stiff breeze, and he immediately deflates, an excuse, an apology, rushing to his lips. “That wasn’t- I didn’t-” 

“Yeah,” Jason rasps, his tone startling solemn, laced with sincerity. 

A shiver curls from the balls of Dick’s feet all the way to the crown of his head. His jaw falls open, lingering a few moments before he croaks, “Yeah?” 

“_Yeah,_” Jason repeats, and tilts his head up to meet Dick’s gaze. “Yes, Dickie, I want you to fuck me.” 

Dick stares, sound warping into white noise in his ears, honing his senses in on the way Jason shifts against the sheets, gnaws at his lower lip and presses out a few strained breaths. “Prove to me that you’re lucid right now,” he demands, like a coward. But he has to _ know. _

Know that Jason’s not toying with him, like he always does, like the joke’s easier to take than the humourless reality of his life. Like it’s easier to hurt someone else than let himself be hurt. Dick stands and watches, and waits for Jason to yank the rug out from under him. 

“I’m lucid, Dickie,” Jason grumbles, but it’s too desperate to be vehement. Like he’s too focused on pinning his hips down to be properly irritated with Dick. “I’m just horny as a fuckin’ jack rabbit.” 

“Prove it,” Dick repeats firmly, slipping into the beginnings of a growl. 

It’s the wrong sound to make. Jason keens in response, thighs falling open as he arches up off the bed. He looks pained now, like it’s taking all of his focus just to hold a conversation. The words fall from his lips rapidfire, like he’s rushing to get them all out at once. 

“Your name is Richard John Grayson. Your birthday is in November. You like long walks on the beach and rambunctious redheads. You hate peonies because one time you fell into Ivy’s patch of them and she dangled you by your ankles off a skyscraper for an hour.” 

Dick stares, stunned at the words that pour from Jason’s lips without hesitation. He doesn’t seem to plan on stopping, his tone blunt and factual as he declares: 

“I know where your stash spot for lewd magazines was back at the Manor.” Jason pauses to snort. “You had three bottles of vanilla whip vodka under your bed, and a bottle of bourbon Bruce had bought you for your twenty-first in the back of the liquor cabinet. You brush your teeth clockwise. You prefer decaf. Your favourite cereal is lucky charms. You don’t know the difference between camembert and brie, even though you love those deep fried triangles they serve at the galas. And you can’t _ stand _ any songs by Oasis.” 

“How’d you know all that?” Dick asks when his head finishes spinning. Jason offers a bleak bark of laughter in return, reaching down to grind the heel of his palm against the swell of his pants. 

“You live in a house full of detectives, Dickie,” he presses out, and grunts as his hips twitch, “are you really surprised that some of us are paying attention?” 

Dick lets the silence lapse, lets his mind turn that over. The heat that’s been simmering in his gut gives a firm tug when Jason’s jaw falls open, his eyes glazed where they fix on the ceiling. Then he’s crooking a knee up onto the bed between Jason’s spread thighs, and the sigh Jason gives him is relieved. 

He doesn’t wait a second longer to yank Dick down on top of him by a handful of his suit. Dick still yelps, balance overthrown as he fumbles down against the length of Jason’s body and _ gasps, _ because he’s so overheated, so warm as he squirms beneath his weight. 

“I feel like I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me,” Jason breathes against his cheekbone, tone fraught with awe and worry, so Dick dips down to kiss beneath his jaw, testing. Jason moans, long and loud, and opens his throat up for Dick to scent him. 

He smells of something deep and earthy, like dirt after rain, like steel and iron-will and the harsh tang of some sweet thing Dick can’t put his finger on. Dick’s tracing a tongue up behind his ear before he can think better of it, and Jason melts beneath him, knees bracketing his hips. 

“Not going to fuck you,” Dick responds softly, and pulls back with effort to meet Jason’s irritable gaze. “But I will help you take the edge off. You want anything more than that, and you’ll have to ask me when you’re not drugged.” 

Jason’s brows rise in surprise. “Is that an invitation?” 

Dick’s lips tug into a grin as he reaches down to tug the buttons of Jason’s pants open, his lips lowering to the man’s throat again. Jason shudders beneath the attention, hips arching to help Dick tug the material down his thighs. “Maybe.” 

Jason reaches up to yank him down to meet his mouth, swallowing up Dick’s bleat with teeth and tongue. Dick nearly laughs at the possessiveness of it, the inherent _ Jason-ness _ of it all. Then he presses one knee up against the back of Jason’s splayed thigh, smothering the man with his weight, boxing him in until Jason relaxes for him. 

“You’re gonna tell me,” Dick gasps when he pulls off Jason’s mouth, squeezes his eyes shut against the rush of endorphins that spiral up through him, coaxed to the surface by Jason’s lips fluttering over his jaw. “You’ll tell me if you want to stop, right?” 

“_Inside,_” Jason growls, and Dick shoves his hand into the man’s open pants without a second’s hesitation. 

Jason arches beneath his touch, breath stuttering as his pelvis flexes off the sheets, thighs parting further when Dick slips his hand past his cock, his balls, to the warmth of his slit. Dick can’t help but revel in the flex of all those muscles, all that lethality, opening up beneath him as he slides a finger in to the hilt. 

The whine that filters up through Jason’s elongated throat makes Dick shiver, makes him circle his finger, pressing down on that bundle of nerves to have the man yelping. “How long’s it been since you had a heat, Jay?” he finds himself asking, sitting back to watch the play of bliss over his features when he slides another in. He’s so slick, parting so beautifully for Dick. 

“_Years,_” Jason whines, hips jerking as he grinds down onto Dick's fingers. 

Dick can’t help but groan, dragging his calloused fingertips against the man’s walls as he shudders on the bed. “Gonna treat you right, little wing,” he promises, moving in earnest now as he fucks into the man writhing beneath him. “Gonna take care of you, I promise.” 

Jason bares his teeth as his spine bows, reaching a hand up. Fingers lace through Dick’s hair, yanking him down so Jason can run teeth and tongue up his throat, inhale his scent. Dick moans sharply, wrist rolling, as he melts into the possessiveness of the motion. Jason laughs, sharp and choked and breathless. “You feel so good, Dickie.” 

Dick’s head feels like it’s going to spin right off his shoulders. He plants a hand above Jason’s shoulder so that he can lean over the man, nudge his throat open and bury himself in the scent he finds there. He can feel Jason clench around his fingers when he does, arms wrapping over his shoulders so he can pull himself up against the line of Dick’s body. 

When he adds a third finger, massaging into Jason with fervent purpose, the omega keens and wraps his ankles in the small of Dick’s back. He lets himself be dragged down into Jason’s heat, bracketed by those thighs as Jason trembles and winds tighter and tighter beneath him. 

“Dick, _ fuck,_” he sobs, head tossed back and gaze unfocused. “Fuck, I’m gonna-” 

“Gonna knot you, Jay,” Dick growls into his neck, possessed by the words, overborne by that _ scent. _ He rolls his hips up against Jason, achingly hard as he drives the omega towards his release. “Gonna mark you up, so pretty. Fuck, you’re so good for me, little wing, so _ good-_” 

Jason whines, clenching down on him like a vice as he comes, and Dick has enough sense to wrap his teeth around Jason’s collarbone as a wave of instinct rushes up over him. Forces himself not to sink into that gorgeous neck, claim the omega as his own. He fucks Jason through it, grinding his own cock against Jason’s thigh as the omega shouts and sobs and comes apart for him. 

When Jason’s settled, loose and boneless beneath Dick’s wandering lips, the alpha pulls back to suck in a deep breath, to clear his aching skull. He feels a hair's width from going into rut at the sight of Jason, sprawled and eager beneath him. But he forces himself to kiss the line of Jason’s jaw until the man stirs feebly, dazed gaze lifting to meet Dick, drinking him in with blown pupils. 

“You alright, little wing?” Dick purrs around a soft smile. “Feeling bett-_ugh!_” 

Jason’s fingers are in his hair again, dragging Dick down as he rolls his hips up against Dick’s trapped cock, crushing the alpha’s hand between them. Then his teeth are trailing down the shell of Dick’s ear, his voice rough. “Want you in me,” he demands in a low timbre, steady and sure, and Dick’s stomach flutters at the _ command _ in that tone, so very Jason. “Want you to knot me, Dick.” 

Dick groans. He has no idea where he finds the lucidity to say, “Can’t knot you when you’re-” 

Jason shoves his hand into Dick’s pants, and he collapses down to one elbow with a curse, limbs weak when Jason squeezes the head of his cock. “Dick,” he says sternly, and Dick mewls an affirmation. “Either you’re knotting me or you’re riding me. But you’re not gonna get away with fingering me through my entire heat.” 

“Okay,” Dick gasps, feeling hot all over. He’s not sure if it’s him or Jason’s molten core that’s got him so heated. 

Jason pulls back enough to grin at him, all sharp teeth and sunshine mirth, and for a minute Dick’s knocked breathless with how much he looks like himself. How much he looks like the Jason Dick knew, all those years ago. “So what’s it gonna be, alpha?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't cha just love a cliffhanger? :) 
> 
> This prompt went _well_ over word limit, because I was having way too much fun writing it. So I unfortunately had to cut it short. I'm sure you can decide yourselves how it ends. An enormous thank you to the Prompter for giving me such a detailed and well thought-out prompt - as you can see, it really helped me envisage what to write!


	12. A Certain Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Regency, Slow Dancing, Developing Relationship 
> 
> **Words:** 2637 
> 
> **Summary:** Mr Jason Todd of Wayne Manor, Gothamshire, was not a person who delighted in the crush of balls, but rather the quiet of literature. Mr Timothy Drake plans to change that.

The benefit of private balls over public balls is, to Jason, that at a private one there are quiet places to read. The music carries faintly through the closed doors of the sequestered parlour, the din of voices subdued almost to silence as he looks over the titles of the books stacked neatly atop the writing desk next to the window. 

They’re mostly memoirs of technicians and innovators on a truly eclectic range of topics; Jason can spy one such book on the properties, mechanisms and applications of the Stirling engine. Directly atop its green buckram is a biographic compilation of letters by the renowned physicist Count Rumford, a pamphlet on the medical wonders of the newly proposed stethoscope for ‘mediate auscultation’ tucked carelessly between its cream pages. 

They don’t particularly appeal to his greater interests, though Jason does pause in his exploration to consider what passions Drake must have to value such dull, factual literature in such a broad collection of inspiring fictional works. 

It takes him next to no time at all to locate the more passionate shelves bearing the most recent works of Byron and Keats. Jason preens upon their unbroken spines, admires their pristine pages and pauses to inhale the scent of fresh pressed novellas. 

He’d sequestered himself away from the raucous festivities the instant he’d been able to pry himself from beneath Bruce’s shadow; stumbling upon the library had been happenstance, but Jason certainly didn’t lack appreciation for his fortune. 

The complicated dances of the social elite had never appealed to him for as long as he had been in Bruce’s care. Jason knew how to present himself to the masses, and Bruce had insisted he be educated in the proper customs fit for gentlemen of their standing; he just didn’t care for the rigmarole and palaver these events always seemed to demand. Jason was never more content than when he found himself in the company of a thousand unspoken poets and winsome writers. 

Wayne Manor housed a veritable abundance of books in Bruce’s meticulously cultivated library on subjects ranging from earnest prose to anecdotal anthologies. Most days, Jason liked to wander its depths, drawing out books at random to devour and digest with a fervent, untempered hunger. Bruce had always enthused upon his love of books, had nurtured it in him from the youngest age. 

The sudden swell of noise forces him to turn, his fingers still pinched against the spine of his selection. Jason’s gaze falls to the figure of his dark-haired host, who shuts the door with a soft click. The man pauses when he sees Jason, but his blue eyes betray no surprise; if anything, his features reflect an almost mild amusement at Jason’s countenance. 

“You, sir, are not supposed to be in here.” 

“Do not invite people to your home if you do not wish them to look through it,” Jason replies coolly, tucking his hands behind his back. 

Tim smiles, slight and airy. “I was not in charge of the invitations, my good man.” 

“Or I would not have been invited,” Jason supplies, eyeing Tim as he walks softly around the room. His footsteps are nearly indistinguishable upon the ornately patterned rugs that litter the floor. “Did you follow me?” 

Tim’s admission is light, and flows easily from his tongue, his timbre prim and proper. “I was curious to see what drew you away from the festivities.” 

“No fear, sir, I am not stealing from you,” Jason clips out before he can think to stifle his tongue. 

“No, you are looking for something to read,” Tim agrees easily, surveying Jason with an inquiring tilt to his head. Jason’s stomach tightens under that piercing gaze, and he clenches his hands in the small of his back. “I wonder why Mr. Wayne did not desire to enter you into the clergy. Surely with his range of influence, he could have found a parish for his ward?” 

Then he laughs, short and severe in its mirth. His eyes sparkle as if they’re sharing a joke. “Though I must say, I have seen many other clergymen more inclined to dance than you, so perhaps he did not think you congenial enough for such a position.”

“I enjoy dancing as much as any other gentleman,” Jason answers, his tone clipped, “if my indulgences are what you call into question, sir.” 

“I did not intend to cause offence-” Tim begins after a moment of surprised hesitation. 

“And I took none,” Jason interjects, perhaps a tad more sharply than is called for. It makes Tim’s jaw snap shut, his expression remorseful. A flutter of guilt twists Jason’s stomach, ratcheting his pulse another notch higher. 

He cannot for the life of him understand why he’s so _ nervous _ around the socialite. From the moment Bruce had informed him of the Drakes’ intention to host a ball for their only son and heir, to the moment Jason had set foot in their lavish halls, he had felt startling out of place amongst their wealth and influence. They were a severe family - _ ambitious _ was the word Jason had heard used in less polite circles - without want for softer platitudes or lighthearted geniality. Their solemn and demure outlooks were a foil for the more hedonistic of Bruce’s socialite companions, though Jason didn’t mind their quiet company in the slightest. 

It was just their astuteness that drew Jason’s stomach up into his throat, had him smoothing down the creases of his tailcoat in an almost manic fashion, as if petrified they would unearth him for the imposter he sometimes felt he was. As if a few stray imperfections would reveal the severity of his street-raised youth before he'd come under the influence of Bruce’s wardship. 

The younger man clears his throat, hands fretting in their gloves as he glances from Jason, to the floor, and returns to the books on the table. 

“You would just rather books to dancing?” Tim asks, tentatively this time. 

Jason swallows stiffly, and shifts his weight to his other foot. “I do not consider dancing wholly abhorrent. However, I do prefer the comforts of a ruminative novel to the excitement of a ball.” Then Jason flusters at the inherent implication of his distaste. “Loathe though I am to infer an ungraciousness toward your kind hospitality, Mr. Drake. You’ll have to forgive my withdrawal from the festivities; I mean no disrespect to you or your guests.” 

Tim’s lips curl in a small, appeased smile that soothes some of the turmoil in Jason’s gut. “What books have you found then?” 

Jason starts, before glancing at his interrupted selection. “Sir Walter Scott,” he answers hesitantly. “I had not read his latest; I thought I might peruse his recent poetic works while I had the fortune of enjoying them.” 

Tim’s head tilts ever-so-slightly, analysing his sincerity. “You prefer poetry?” 

Jason feels his shoulders hunch under the scrutiny, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I think it can be stimulating, yes. Some of the best minds have been roused by the romantic prose of softer men.” 

“You strike me as a writer of your own. Do you compose?” 

Jason swallows, and frets. “On occasion. I wouldn’t assume to be on par with visionaries such as Wordsworth or Coleridge-” 

“No, because that would be terribly unbecoming,” Tim says with a grin that is as knowing as it is amused. Jason scowls, unable to shake the feeling that he’s the subject of some grand jest. 

“It’s a fleeting hobby,” Jason defends. “Hardly demanding of my time.” 

“I think poetry is a fine pastime,” Tim says softly, sapping some of the reflexive anger from Jason’s posture. “Some of the more accomplished minds had a flair for poetry; I would hate to insinuate any inferiority on their part.” 

Jason warms slightly at that assessment, dragging his gaze down Tim’s immaculate dress. The polished silver of his buttons gleam in the dimmed lighting. “Do you write?” 

“I am afraid not,” Tim admits with the self-consciousness of a man caught idling. “I am more suited to scientific pursuits. And dancing,” he adds with a laugh, “of course.” 

“You enjoy dancing?” 

Tim’s eyes gleam with subdued mirth. “I have come to enjoy it. I find it rather depends upon one’s partner.” 

Jason considers that, and replies, “I have never been one for dancing. I do not have an ear for rhythm, unfortunately. I make for a horrible partner, and a worse lead.” 

Tim hums at the admission. “Have you always taken the lead in dancing?” 

Jason blinks, confused. “For lack of a better role to take.” 

Tim gestures absently. “I would be happy to tutor you in more… passive forms of dance, if you were so inclined.” 

Jason glances around at the shelves and the understated decor. “Here? Now?” 

“I don’t see any reason why not, if you are amenable to the proposition.” 

There’s a quality to his smile that makes the heat pool in Jason’s cheeks. He’s suddenly aware of himself, of his gangling limbs and obtuse frame. He feels awkward in his own skin, bereft of the fluid ease with which Tim carries himself. Not for the first time, Jason wishes he were better suited to dancing. 

“I could be amenable,” Jason whispers. 

Tim looks relieved, and if Jason didn’t know better, timid. “Well then,” he professes, somewhat abruptly, and crosses the room to offer Jason his hand. 

Jason glances down at it, and then meets his gaze with blooming trepidation. “Surely you wouldn’t consider me to take the role of the lady.” 

Tim looks confused, curious beneath his immediate uncertainty. “I had assumed you were amenable. What other role would you take?” 

Jason drags his gaze up and down Tim’s smaller frame with a frown. “I do believe I am the taller of us both, sir.” 

“I do believe I am the more experienced dancer,” Tim counters with the crook of a wicked smile, and Jason flushes. Tim shifts his palm again, inviting. “If I were to tutor you in dancing, you would need to take my hand, sir.” 

Jason has to concede that he’s right, even if it feels odd to be offered a dance, when Jason’s so familiar with offering. It makes his stomach flutter in anticipation, and Jason swallows tightly before accepting Tim’s offer. 

The gloves are unbearably soft beneath Jason’s own callouses, delicate in a way that reminds him of a woman’s touch. When Tim guides them in a slow circle, Jason can’t help but focus on the surety of his grip, the confidence with which he draws Jason close. 

Their shoes shuffle across the carpet, Jason matching each of Tim’s steps when he draws them together with a tug on Jason’s larger fingers, pressing them almost chest to chest. 

There’s a beaming smile waiting for him when Jason glances up from their clasped hands, and it nearly steals his breath. It’s surprisingly easy to fall into the wake of Tim’s lead; he’s a magnificently well-versed dancer, bred by tutoring and experience, Jason’s assured. He can almost forget what they’re doing, the room melting away into the recesses as they turn in a languid circle around one another, captivated by each other’s attraction. 

It’s not until Tim pulls him into a tight twist, rising to his toes so that his arm clears Jason’s head when he passes below, and Jason falters beneath the uncommonness of the motion, that Jason remembers they’re even dancing. 

“You are so hesitant around me,” Tim murmurs, so softly that Jason would have missed it, were it not for the fact that he’s close enough to breathe Tim’s air. “What could I possibly have done to earn such distance, such disregard?” 

Jason flushes, and tries not to misinterpret the joy in Tim’s gaze when he falls into the wake of his pull again with little misdirection, content to follow where he leads. The man - Timothy _ Drake _ \- couldn’t possibly find him anything other than unexceptional. Jason would be wise to remember as much. “I feel immodest around you,” he admits softly, and Tim stalls in his bewilderment. 

His gaze is piercing when it flits over his face, picking apart every modicum of his expression. Jason feels naked beneath his stare. 

“To think you immodest would be a grave discredit to your nature, sir,” Tim admits, a tad defensively. “I find you to be quite fascinating, and companionably droll. You would be mistaken to assume I thought anything less of you.” 

“You find me to be fascinating?” Jason says with a breathless, disbelieving laugh, and Tim’s gaze is soft when he meets it next. 

“Would that it be so hard to believe?” 

“I’m afraid I do not agree with your assessment, sir,” Jason admits, stepping forward to meet Tim when he pulls him into his space. Jason can’t help but marvel at the catch of firelight in his blue gaze, unwavering where it rises to meet his own. “I find myself to be a pale comparison to yourself.” 

“You would find yourself to be in error, sir,” Tim replies, breathless and awed in a way that makes the air catch in Jason’s lungs. His sincerity is evident. “Would that I could be as captivating as you.” 

This time, Jason definitely blushes, stumbling to a halt and clearing his throat. Tim doesn’t withdraw his hand, though he does cease their artful trek across the carpeted floor. “Your flattery is unfounded.” 

“I found my flattery upon a stalwart cause,” Tim replies with determination. “I find myself to be quite rational in most matters, nor do I consider myself to be lacking in this instance. You are captivating, sir.” 

“In that I captivate your reasonable interests, or in that I captivate your time, and in doing so deprive your sorely impatient guests, Mr Drake?” Jason asks drily, withdrawing his hand to his side as he nods to the closed doors. 

“Could it not be both?” Tim returns, and Jason sucks in a sharp breath, glancing down at his feet as he works to stifle his smile. It would not do for him to consider himself worthy of receiving Timothy Drake’s companionship, even though Jason finds himself yearning all the same. 

“I would think that I had kept your attention for long enough,” he presses, and nods again to the doors. “Your other guests would consider me selfish.” 

Tim’s gaze is earnest, unwavering. “My other guests do not fascinate me as you do.” 

Jason presses a tight breath into his lungs, searching that stare for an ounce of insincerity. “Hark, but were you to call me fascinating again, sir,” Jason answers softly, “then I would be compelled to believe it.” 

Tim’s lips twitch in a smile. “Surely then,” he confesses, “it would be both my duty and my pleasure to assure you of such truth daily, by way of rote. Tell me if you prefer the written demonstration of my certainty, and I will with haste set to provide it.” 

“I fear that would be an imposition upon your limited time,” Jason remarks, but he can feel himself smiling. 

“Then I wish to be imposed upon,” Tim returns. 

“Or that it would play upon your unaccustomed lessons.” 

“Then I am in need of a tutor.” 

Jason laughs softly, hands gathering at his sides, for lack of somewhere better to be. “A tutor, sir?” 

“One educated in the written predilections,” Tim answers coolly. “Preferably with an appreciation for authors such as Byron or Scott.” 

“And how could I hope to return your time to you, Mr. Drake?” Jason asks with a lift of his brow. 

There is no hesitation when the man answers, “I would teach you to dance, of course, Mr. Todd. If you would be amenable, that is?” 

Jason swallows down the excitement that threatens to spill forth from his lips, and answers, soft and with earnest pleasure, “I would be amenable.” 

* * *

_"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love." ― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never read Pride & Prejudice, nor have I seen any of the movies, so I think I did okay! 
> 
> I did have to get this one beta'd by the enigmatic Joverie who _has_ read P&P and adores Regency in general, so I have to give them an enormous thank you. 
> 
> And thank you to the Prompter for making me try something new!! I love a challenge, and this one was a wonderful change of pace dialogue-wise, which I always struggle with. Thank you for the opportunity to improve, and for the jumpstart <3


	13. Accost & Assuage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Kon-El | Conner Kent 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Sexual Assault, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Groping, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, Broken Bones, Rescue, Developing Relationship 
> 
> **Words:** 3470 
> 
> **Summary:** Tim is accosted by catcallers. Kon swoops in to save him.

Tim steps aside, holding open the convenience store door to let the gaggle of giggling teenage girls bustle past him. He has to shuffle the box of chocolates into the crook of his arm to avoid being bowled over. 

He’d sort of bought them on a whim. He figured he should bring _ something. _ Even though it was just him and Kon playing video games at one of his more secluded safehouses, Tim felt the need to bring some sort of gift to the meet up. 

It’s a date, Tim thinks? They hadn’t really defined it, but it’s the first time they’ve done something together without the rest of the Titans, so Tim considers that a date. Just the two of them for an evening, playing video games and sitting together on a couch. That’s a date. Right? 

Tim suddenly feels underdressed. He’d gone for casualwear with the long sweater, but he can’t deny to himself that he’d chosen the leggings because they hugged his figure like a dream. He’s got great legs, honestly; sue him if he wants Kon to notice them a little. And maybe Tim wants Kon to see him in something other than his armor for once. Something more… casual. Date-worthy. 

Maybe he’s overthinking this. 

Statement of the year, Tim thinks, and crosses to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. 

The streets are growing quieter at this time of night, the dusk cold setting in to scatter Gotham’s citizens like roaches. This neighborhood is nestled in the older pockets of Gotham, the sort of area that boasts old crumbling brickwork and neighbors who lock their doors when they hear a gunshot. Tim would have liked to take Kon to the penthouse, but between Dick crashing unexpectedly on his couch and his meddling hyper-observant family, Tim’s sort of between safehouses at the moment. This one was the most private he could wrangle in a pinch, and he figures Kon won’t mind if they’re staying inside anyway. 

He’s hoping the chocolates will make up for it. 

“Hey, beautiful.” 

The purr jerks Tim’s head up, the cord of his earphones snapping taut as he registers the man leaned up on the brick steps. He frowns softly, turning back to his phone as he regains his gait, counteracting the distracted pause. 

He’s aware of the man’s gaze on him, trailing Tim as he continues down the sidewalk, but it’s not until he glances at a passing pick up blaring obnoxiously loud music that he catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye. 

A dash of icy surprise floods Tim’s chest at the thought that the man’s been _ following _ him. He must have travelled three blocks now. There’s no plausible way to deny that he’s being tailed, and Tim wonders why the hell anyone would be tailing him. He’s not even working any cases at the moment. He’s been in San Francisco for the past month; he’s only in Gotham for the weekend, for Pete’s sake. And there’s no way the guy recognises him as Timothy Wayne-Drake, not without the sharp angles of his designer suits. Not when Tim went to the effort of wearing _ casual_, soft clothing for his date with Kon. 

Tim turns his music off, leaving his earphones in his ears as he strains to pinpoint exactly how close behind him his unwelcome follower is. He scowls, swallowing hard and quickening his step as he crosses to the other side of the street. He doesn’t particularly want to start a fight, so if this guy’s interest will falter when Tim proves himself more trouble than he’s worth, maybe he’ll give up the chase easily. 

When Tim glances back, he’s been joined by another man. 

Tim stumbles to a stop at the next intersection, cutting a quick glimpse over his shoulder that he hopes is surreptitious. The gleam of the men’s teeth in the red lighting tells him it’s anything but, preening beneath his disconcerted attention. 

So he turns the corner and cuts across the street further down from the lights, quick-stepping across the road and down an alley to cut through back to his intended street. When he comes upon the mesh fence, Tim slows with a bleat of dismay and doubles back for the street. He’d had a headstart on the men, so if he can get back to the pavement and cut quickly down the sidewalk, he might be able to get to the next alley before they spot him. Tim’s safehouse isn’t far from here, so he might be able to make it. 

When their shadows fall across the mouth of the alley, Tim stills. It’s hard to see in the gloom, but the leader’s eyes seem to light up at the sight of him in the middle of the empty passageway. 

“There you are, beautiful. Was wondering where you’d gotten to.” 

The one flanking him chuckles, and it shears through the thrum of Tim’s pulse, flooding him with the need to leave, _ now. _ He clears his throat, ducks his head, trying to square his shoulders, make his small frame imposing as he picks up a forceful gait and tries to stride past them. 

A hand winds around Tim’s arm, fingers biting through the thick wool of his sweater, and yanks him off balance. He rights himself with a yelp, looking first to the fist around his bicep, and then to the amused smirk. 

“Let go,” he says, but the words come out grating, breathless. He’s Red Robin, he’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, he should be- He can’t- 

“Where’re you going, baby?” the man asks mildly, and shoves him back a step, into the alley. Tim’s pulse ricochets in his skull, dizzying as he finds his feet. “What’s the big rush?” 

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He turns on his heel, the chocolates falling from his slick grip as he spins and bolts for the fence. _ Why are you running? _ he demands as his fingers lace through the wire mesh, _ You can fight. You _ should _ fight. _

He hears the cardboard crushed under a pursuing boot, gets one of his converse into a foothold and shoves upwards, breath sharp in the cold air. Something, a hand, a fist, winds into the woollen sweater and _ yanks. _

Tim tips backwards with a scream, his sweat-slicked and cold fingers ripping from the metal wire with the force. He lands onto his assailant, into his chest, heel kicking out against the fence as an arm winds around his waist, just below his diaphragm. The mesh jangles with the force, and a few storeys up, the lights in one of the windows overlooking the alley goes out. 

“What’re you doing, sweet thing? We’re back here,” one of the men laughs, and the heels of Tim’s shoes grind against the pavement when he’s dragged back a step. He squirms, a protest rising and lodging in his throat as his hands jump to the arm wrapped like a vice around him, thick fingers painfully hard against his ribs. 

Another hand sweeps the hair off his forehead, and Tim recoils from the touch with a soft cry of panic, hunching down as the hand shifts to grip his jaw. 

“C’mon, gorgeous, give us a smile. You looked so cute before. Give us that million dollar _ grin_, baby.” 

The word is punctuated with a firm squeeze of his right ass cheek, nauseatingly tactile through his thin leggings, and Tim wriggles fervently. His nails bite into that arm, clawing, as the hand around his jaw yanks his head back against the leader’s shoulder. 

“Aw, look, he’s bashful,” the owner of the hand on his ass croons, and the grip on his face firms enough to make Tim’s jaw ache as he gasps and winces. 

“Please,” he whispers, the sound strained between his teeth, mewling between chapped lips. His stomach is awash with acid, every limb singing with tingling adrenaline that is doing _ nothing _ to aid him. Tim almost wants to scream at himself. Why can’t he- Why isn’t he- 

“Don’t worry, baby,” the second man keeps crooning, his words a sarcastic coo, his breath stale and warm on Tim’s cheek as he squeezes his eyes shut. His other hand slides down Tim’s abdomen, cupping his groin with a firm palm. “We’ll take good care of you.” 

Tim freezes, his brain choking out. He can hear the men laughing, feel the callouses against his jaw and the painful vice around his diaphragm. But they sound distant, filtering down at him like he’s underwater. He doesn’t move, _ can’t _ move, every muscle locked in rigid denial, in sheer refusal of the situation he’s in. He’s better than this, he’s smarter and faster and stronger and- and- 

_ Why can’t he move? _

When Tim next glances down, the man’s hand has slid beneath his leggings, teasing the line of his cock through his briefs. He doesn’t even recall when it happened, just that he can feel the slow, lazy coil of heat in his gut, stoked by the slightly rough stimulation. It punches the air from his lungs, makes him wheeze and slacken in the leader’s grip, his knees buckling. 

“I’ll bet he’s a right cockslut,” one of them is muttering hard and fast. _ Aroused. _

“Of course he is,” the other replies, indignant. “Did you see how his legs looked in those pants? His ass? He’s practically begging for it, the whore.” 

Tim manages to croak a cry up through his throat, but the hand wrapped around his chin just cants to smother his mouth, pre-empting a shout. He twitches when the man squeezes his cock, lips pressing against the line of his throat, sucking at his jugular. 

The one with his hand on Tim, down _ there, _ moves his other hand to his belt, unbuckling it with rigorous fluency and yanking down his zipper. Rummages around until he can pull his own cock free, slide the head up the length of Tim’s thigh. He flinches, the first sob breaking from his muffled lips. 

The man groans, rocking against him, possessive as Tim shrivels. “You know how hot you look, baby? Know what that does to me, crying like that?” 

He’s… he’s crying. Those are tears he can feel on his cheeks. When did he…? 

Tim’s skull hurts, his head pounding a frantic beat in time with his jacked pulse, but the adrenaline is doing _ nothing _ to get him moving. He just feels frozen, his limbs stiff and unresponsive where his arms curl around the first man’s forearm. 

The man grunts and thrusts upwards, grinding against Tim’s thigh with a ferocity that makes the acid bubble in Tim’s gut. “Yeah, you do, don’t you? That’s why you wear this shit, isn’t it, baby? You fuckin’ cocktease. Gonna give you what you deserve, love-” 

The man breaks off with a rough groan, leaning back to perfect his grip on himself, to jerk himself with frantic obsession. Tim needs to scream, needs to yell, needs- needs _ help. _ Needs someone, anyone, to find him, to see him, to _ help him. _

The hand over his mouth slips a bit, the second man panting harshly as he palms Tim’s cock, and it’s enough that Tim feels a wash of cool air over his lips. Sucks a cold breath into his lungs, and presses it out in a bellow. 

“_Help!_” 

It startles the first man, who reaches to adjust his grip, but Tim jerks his head aside, out of his reach, and yells again, “Help! I’m- D-Nightwing! Bat- _ anyone, _ I need h-” 

The first growls a curse, scrambling to seize his jaw, to smother his cries as Tim heaves through a sob. He wants to be away from here, out of this alley, at _ home, _safe, with Kon, with- 

“_Kon!_” Tim screeches, and then those fingers clamp down on the lower half of his face. His muffled screams sound shrill and quiet in even his own ears. 

“Shut the fuck up,” the leader hisses against his ear. “Hurry up and get in this slut, would you? I want my go.” 

Irritation flashes over the second’s features, but Tim watches him unhand himself, unhand Tim, to wrap both hands up over his hips. His fingers delve into the waistband of his leggings, and Tim bucks when he begins to roll them down, finally dropping his hand to fuse around the man’s wrist with bruising pressure. It doesn’t stop him. 

Tim’s skin prickles when it’s exposed to the chill air in the alley, the muscles of his abdomen clenching as he kicks and writhes. But with the man this close, pressed against him, between his legs, he hasn’t got the leverage to land a truly effective blow. 

“So eager,” the man growls with agitation, and his palm bruises when he pins Tim’s hip down, his other yanking more forcefully at his pants. “Don’t worry, slut, you’ll get what you need soon enough.” 

Then he’s flying across the alley with a rushed wheeze, bent in two when he hits the wire fence with a deafening crash. The grip around Tim’s waist slackens in surprise, but Tim doesn’t have the time to turn his head before there’s a flash of black leather, and a red glove winds around the leader’s wrist. 

He yelps directly into Tim’s ear at the pressure, and Tim swears he can hear the bones grinding as his saviour steps into view. His curls are mussed from the flight over, his earrings glinting in the light that spills in from the street. It illuminates the sheen of his collar, the vibrant blue of his t-shirt, the red burn of his sky blue irises. 

Tim sucks in a tremulous breath when Kon pries the man’s arm away from his diaphragm, twisting inexorably as the panic floods the man’s features. 

“Let him go,” he demands, his tone low and strained with barely contained rage. The hand jerks away from Tim’s mouth, and he gulps down a lungful of air as his heels hit the pavement, staggering forward. 

Kon’s free arm lifts, and Tim reaches for it blindly to steady himself as his knees buckle. The man’s gaze hasn’t parted from the vigilante, his jaw flapping uselessly in his bewilderment. 

“You’re- you’re-” 

“Fuck you,” Kon spits, and in the same breath, snaps the man’s arm. 

His scream makes Tim’s legs turn to jelly, makes vertigo rush up swift and strong between his ears, pounding against his skull as he keels forward against Kon. The vigilante’s arms are around him in the next moment, as he shifts and bends, scooping Tim’s knees up with his forearm. 

Tim’s vaguely aware of his feet parting with the pavement, of them moving, flying? And then Kon’s touching down with the barest misstep, flowing down to his knees in an alley that looks more familiar, looks like Tim’s apartment building. 

Kon sets him down against the brick wall, makes sure he’s sitting upright before he goes to pull back. Tries to put distance between them, and Tim latches out to seize his wrist. 

“Don’t go,” he bleats sharply, and Kon freezes, his brow pinching. 

“I’m not going anyw-” 

Tim bursts into tears. He’s not sure why or how; there’s just a swell in his chest that feels like it’ll split him open if he doesn’t let it out. Kon startles at the sound, but sweeps forwards immediately to embrace him, tucking Tim’s head against his shoulder as Tim fists hands in the back of his jacket and sobs. 

A thumb sweeps over his temple, fingers tucking his fringe back behind his ear. 

“Hey, shh,” Kon murmurs into his temple, nose pressing in a brief not-quite-kiss. His tone is light, easy. It soothes the raw parts of him. “You’re alright. You’re with me.” 

Tim clings to him, ignoring the way he’s trembling against the coarse brick, and lifts his head enough to draw in a shuddering gasp of cold air. 

“You’re okay,” Kon promises. “You’re safe.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, and Kon stills against him. 

“What are you sorry for?” Kon asks, his tone guarded, and Tim buries his nose in the smell of leather and aftershave and _ Kon. _

“For making you come all this way,” Tim croaks, and hates how wrecked his voice sounds. “For making you have to help me. I should have been able to handle it, I should have fought back, I should-” 

Tim thinks of Bruce, of Dick, of how he’s_ Red Robin, _ and he _ should _ have been able to handle two unruly thugs. He’s come up against worse odds before, come out on top of worse odds. He can’t understand why he panicked like that, why he ran, why he- 

“You froze up,” Kon says softly, stroking down the back of Tim’s spine as he sniffles. “It happens sometimes. More often than you think. For lots of reasons. It doesn’t make you any less of a fighter, any less than who you are, Tim.” 

“It was my fault,” Tim whispers sullenly, grip tightening so hard the leather squeaks. “I shouldn’t have let them corner me like that. I should have been smarter, shouldn’t have tried to cut through an _ alley._” 

“That’s hindsight talking,” Kon reminds him. “It wasn’t your fault. You were in civilian clothes, not armour, up against two guys twice your size. Running was the smartest option, you _ picked _ the smartest course of action, Tim. No one can fault you for that.” 

“But they,” Tim starts, and has to swallow sharply before he can continue. “But I didn’t run fast enough. They caught me, they- they held me down, and they- _ God, _ Bruce is going to be furious with me. I know better, I should’ve known better.” 

“_Tim,_” Kon barks, startling him with the ferocity behind his tone. He pulls back enough that Tim can meet his roiling blue gaze. “Stop kicking yourself over this. It was _ not _ your fault. It wasn’t anything to do with you. There wasn’t anything you did wrong.” 

He can feel the tears welling again. “But I-” 

“You did everything right, but sometimes shit happens. You didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t your fault.” 

He leans forwards, squeezing Tim in his embrace in a way that makes him melt beneath those strong arms. Makes him feel protected, secure. 

“You’re just human, Tim,” Kon sighs against his neck. “And I’m impressed by that every day I spend with you. How strong you are, how resilient you are. How you pick yourself up even in the worst situations, and move along. Grow from it. See the best in it. You’re a miracle, Tim. I’d cross a universe to watch you any day of the week.” 

“You… you don’t think I’m weak?” Tim croaks, and Kon squeezes tighter before pulling away. His brow is knotted, his expression pained. 

“Why would I ever think that?” Kon asks, hushed. “You’re amazing, Tim - mistakes and all.” 

“I thought you’d be angry with me,” Tim whispers, grip loosening from its tight hold on Kon’s jacket. “Or maybe disgusted, I don’t know. Two thugs and Red Robin.” He croaks a laugh, frazzled and bleak. “Sounds like the title to a-” 

“Stop,” Kon says sharply, and Tim glances up, his panicked mirth dying. “What’s it going to take to make you see that I’m not angry or disgusted or whatever you’re thinking right now? That _ you _ shouldn’t feel those ways about yourself. Tim, I’m just glad you're _ safe._” 

“You broke a man’s arm,” Tim remembers with dizzying clarity. For _ him, _ for Tim. 

“Are you okay?” Kon asks instead of acknowledging that, brushing aside Tim’s hair to inspect his jaw. He can feel the faint ache of developing bruises, but Tim can’t think much past the depths of those ocean-blue eyes. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Tim,” Kon says sternly. “Don’t say you’re fine if you’re not. It’s okay to not be fine. I just want to know if they hurt you, if you need medical attention. I can take you to a hospital if you need to, or the cops to file-” 

“What? Oh God, Kon, no,” Tim babbles, chest warming at the earnest concern in the man’s tone. “I’m fine, I’m just shaken up. I don’t need any of that, honest. I’m just- I’m just really glad you’re here,” he confesses with a sigh, leaning into Kon’s weight. 

Those arms encircle him, holding tight as Kon huffs into his hair. “I really want to go back for those guys,” he admits sullenly, a note of dark malignancy beneath his pout. 

Tim squeezes harder, as if he can bury himself in Kon by force. “I want you here,” he whispers. “With me, right now.” 

He feels when Kon softens, the tension unwinding from his posture. “I want that too.” 

“Stay with me?” Tim asks, and his heart feels sluggish in his chest, his pulse lethargic. 

Kon’s hand spreads across his back, warm and whole. “Always, Tim.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some wish fulfilment. Everyone wants a hero once in a while. Even heroes. 
> 
> Like I said, November's been a doozy. I've been edging off my writers block for nearly a month and now it's snuck up on me. Luckily I've almost finished all the prompts, so it's only a handful more to come. Thanks to everyone for their patience! 
> 
> Thank you very much to this Prompter, who's a very good friend, a great source of inspiration, and the very first DC friend I made on AO3. And who is slowly winning me over to writing some TimKon. Let this be a huge thank you for your encouragement and support; I couldn't have gotten here without it.


	14. These Walls Have Ears, But They Won't Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con; Major Character Death **
> 
> **Category:** M/M, Multi 
> 
> **Relationship:** Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson 
> 
> **Characters:** Slade Wilson, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Mob, Mob Boss Dick Grayson, Officer Jason Todd, Officer Slade Wilson, Organized Crime, Threesome - M/M/M, Extremely Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Edgeplay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Dom/sub Undertones, Dirty Talk, Breathplay, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Choking, Possible Character Death 
> 
> **Words:** 7305 
> 
> **Summary:** Slade should’ve known better than to assume Grayson’s pet officer had ever turned on the crime lord. Unfortunately, he enjoys the cost of his naivety more than he should.

Slade might have a concussion. Between the congealed blood spotting his temple and the way his brain doesn’t quite feel like it’s settled within his skull, he’s pretty in favour of that being the outcome. 

His limbs are heavy, a beat behind responsive. He’s only had the displeasure of experiencing this sort of lethargy twice before, and both times he’d been the one to come out on top of the altercation. 

The kid’s got a mean swing. Slade should’ve known it. He _ did _ know that. He should’ve _ seen _it. 

His memories blur around the edges, smearing across his mind's eye when he tries to remember what happened. He remembers slivers of clarity, shards of sensation that make the gash down the side of his head, painting his stark white hair a rusty red-brown, flare with pain. 

Todd, on one knee as he’d inspected the wheel of their cruiser. The rumbles of low laughter in Slade’s throat when he’d stepped around to offer a second opinion on the kid’s analysis that they had a flat. The whistle of the tire iron through the air, his flinch, the crack- 

He remembers the feel of leather against his throbbing cheek, face down in the backseat of their cruiser, the roll of Todd’s shoulder as he’d guided the wheel around. The gleam of the gun in Todd’s holster, the vibrant blue of his cap on the passenger seat, _ Slade’s _ seat. The bite of cuffs against Slade’s wrists, the dig of his badge where it was nestled between his chest and the leather upholstery. The swell of nausea when Todd wrenched them around a corner, and the curl of his smile when he’d glanced back at Slade’s bitten off groan. 

He’s still smiling when they glide to a stop in the underground garage, though now it’s less gleefully malicious and more quietly amused. Smug, if Slade had to guess. It makes his blood ratchet up a few irritable degrees. 

The door snaps shut, loud in the enclosed space, and Slade pries his eyes open to watch Todd come around and open the back passenger door. He leans in, over Slade, one knee pressing into the seat between Slade’s legs, dipping under his weight. 

“You’re not going to be stupid about this, are you, old man?” Todd asks with a flash of teeth, and Slade’s stomach clenches at the old nickname, at the familiarity, at the suggestion that they’re anything other than opposed right now. His hands clench in their cuffs. 

Todd just laughs and reaches past him, slides his fingers into the small of Slade’s back, and for a moment he fears Todd is going to strip him. Then that hand fists around his belt, above the chain of his cuffs, and Slade grunts when he’s yanked back across the seat. 

The kid’s got a solid set of muscle on him, Slade knows, and it doesn’t dampen his concern any less when his knees hit the lip of the door, standard issue boots scraping gritted concrete when Todd leverages him out of their cruiser. 

Then he’s on his knees in an abandoned parking garage, chest pressed up against his own car, and Todd’s lips are brushing the shell of his ear. “Do me a favour; I think you’re too prideful to do something as dumb as scream down here, but I wouldn’t put it past you to try to make a break for it, so…” 

Slade hears the snap of a clasp, the creak of leather, and then the cold muzzle of a gun trailing up into his hairline. 

“I’m not planning on killing you,” Todd breathes around a grin. It makes the hairs beneath the barrel rise to attention. “But I’ve seen you in action, more than once. And I don’t want to be that cliche prick with a big, bad mouth. So if you try _ any _ shit, I’m just going to shoot you.” 

When Slade doesn’t respond, Todd grinds the muzzle into the back of his skull. He grunts, canting forward and finding himself pinned between the car and Todd’s grip. 

“Tell me you understand me,” Todd says, all the mirth evident in his tone. 

Slade turns one eye back to meet Todd’s blue-green gaze, cold and icy. “When I’m done with you, I’m going to find your _ boss _ and put a bullet in him.” 

“Another one?” Todd retorts, and Slade bares teeth. 

“You’re a fucking traitor, Todd,” he snarls. “You deserve each other. I’ll make sure to send him down to meet you in hell when I get my hands on him.” 

Todd’s lips split in a full-blown grin. “I believe you,” he returns solemnly, and shifts his grip to Slade’s bicep to yank him upright. 

The elevator ride up is stagnant and silent, and Slade doesn’t deign to ask for anything else but the privacy of his own thoughts. Todd keeps a wary, measured hand around the chain of his cuffs until the doors open, but otherwise his posture is open. Unperturbed, unconcerned. It makes the pit of Slade’s stomach coil tighter. 

The penthouse suite sprawls before them, heaving with party guests that chatter beneath the artfully dim lights, passing around hors d'oeuvres and champagne laughter. Slade’s gaze skims over the bronze roll of a shoulder, the silver of a senator’s pin in a lapel, the bulge of a pistol against a suit jacket - before Todd is shoving him forward across the tile. 

They draw some attention in their bright blues, turning a few curious heads on their trek through the antechamber into the main sitting room, and Slade can see that this is where the night’s entertainments are in full swing. Waiters bustle back and forth in pristine waistcoats, and the perimeter is spotted with suited men with tattooed fingers - the sort of thug Slade takes a particular pleasure in taking down to the concrete when he cuffs them. 

And sitting amongst all the luxury and thinly veiled inter-gang pleasantries, is the man who's had Slade’s name in his little black book from day one. Ever since Slade had managed to put a slug in the up-and-coming crime boss. 

Dick Grayson. He’s the picture of refinement in a tailored charcoal suit, the heel of his polished oxford set upon his opposing knee. Sprawled back across a leather lounge, the bright stripe of a blue tie cleaving apart his chest as he laughs good-naturedly with his gathered guests. His cheeks are just beginning to rose with the half-drunk champagne flute in his grip, his hair tossing as he grins at an enthralled man who Slade knows is a prominent district attorney. 

“It’s about what we can do for this city,” Dick’s saying as they approach, and Slade feels the way Todd tenses behind him. With anticipation or apprehension, he can’t tell. “What we do for Bludhaven. How we can improve our city for the little guy; for our doctors, and our social workers, and people like these hard-working cops of ours. Gentlemen?” 

Todd jerks him to a halt, and Slade protests the sharp flash of pain in his wrists, glaring back at the man over his shoulder. He must look ridiculous, cuffed in his uniform, presented before Bludhaven’s most prominent crime lord. 

“Officer… Todd,” Dick reads, a note of something else, something akin to warning, beneath that tone. “Can I help you?” 

Jason leverages Slade down against the back of the lounge seat with a grunt, pinning him with a knee to the back of his thigh. Then he leans down to lick his way into Dick’s mouth, and the mafioso opens pliantly for him, all that false hesitation melting away beneath his press. His posture is surprised but not unfamiliar, as he bends into Jason’s kiss. It strikes Slade as possessive, as desperate, as if Jason’s making up for lost time. 

“Hey, babe,” Jason breathes when he pulls away, and pauses to lean his forehead against Dick’s shoulder, as if it’s taking all of his restraint not to kiss Dick again. The muscles along the ridges of his shoulders are tense and eager, and Dick winds a firm hand around them. “Need you out back. Don’t want to disturb your shindig.” 

“Sure thing,” Dick murmurs into the shell of his ear, not missing when Jason shudders and straightens. Dick rolls up to his feet with a lithe grace, grinning down at his guests as he offers, “Be back shortly. Help yourselves to some refreshments.” 

It’s strange, how they act around one another, how they move with each others’ weight like tides. That sort of familiarity… Slade wonders exactly how deeply involved Todd was with Grayson’s exploits before he turned rat on the BPD. Whether he’d planned this, years in advance. What it had felt like to be separated from Grayson for those years, to scorn him in the breakroom amongst jaded cops and silently ache for him at the same time. 

It makes Slade maliciously gleeful to remember the shock on Jason’s features when he’d shot Grayson beneath his ribs. Made the god-king bleed on the steps of his own empire. 

Todd’s grip is impatient when he drags Slade back up to his feet, shoves him away from the festivities and towards a side room. He’s not expecting Jason’s mouth beside his ear, words charged and breathless with excitement when he says, “Bet you wish you’d worked that one out earlier, hmm?” 

“I was onto you from day one, kid,” Slade grunts, and winces when he’s manhandled through the open door. 

Jason smirks cruelly, confidently, and asks, “Was that day one when you backed me to join the force, or when you told me I was more of a son to you than your own kid?” 

Slade’s lips twist in a grimace. 

Todd laughs when he catches sight of the expression, the steel-capped toe of his boot biting into the back of Slade’s knee the instant they’re secluded, out of sight and mind of Grayson’s guests. He folds to the floor with a snarl, twisting when Todd relinquishes the chain of his cuffs. 

A firm hand winds into his hair, jerking him to a sharp and pointed halt that makes pain wash through Slade’s aching skull. He hisses, stilling as Todd presses up behind him and nudges a foot between his crooked calves. 

“Calm down,” Todd murmurs, low and even, into the back of Slade’s ear. The wash of warm air makes him shudder, makes him pull against the grip in his hair. That fists tightens, bearing down until Slade’s forced to bow forwards. “I said _ calm down. _ Fighting isn’t going to get you anywhere, and I already told you I’m not going to kill you.” 

Slade manages a bleak, choked laugh. It’s sour on his tongue, and the taste lingers. “I seriously doubt that, kid.” 

Todd leans over his shoulder, those bright blue eyes swimming in his peripheral until the man forces Slade to turn and meet his gaze. There’s an earnestness to it, a promise. “Not going to kill you, partner,” he says, tone solemn and soft in a way that makes Slade start, makes his stomach swoop with confusion and familiarity, before Todd's face breaks back into that malicious grin. “You’re the main event tonight.” 

Slade clenches his hands where they hang at his back, baring sharp teeth. “What exactly does that entail?” 

“You’re my gift,” a clear voice says from behind them, followed by the click of a lock sliding into place. Slade tenses, his eye trailing until Grayson strolls into the corner of his field of vision, tugging the tie from around his neck. There’s an excitement to the way he crosses the room, shrugging out of his jacket and discarding the clothing with impatient fluidity. “My welcome home gift, isn’t that right, Jay?” 

“Yeah, baby,” Todd purrs against his ear, tone velvet and emphatic in a way that makes Slade’s blood sing, erases any lingering doubt as to who Todd’s truly loyal to here. There’s a reverence to his timbre, an adoration that Slade would call puppy love if not for the aroused edge to it. “Missed you.” 

The smile Grayson turns on Todd doesn’t fit the features of a crime lord. It’s relief and longing and _ ache _ wrapped up in the curve of those lips and the crinkle of his eyes. His shoulders slide into a more pliant line, setting into a shared ease as he approaches them. 

Slade jerks back from the proximity when Grayson steps up to layer himself over Todd. His arms sliding up around the back of the taller man’s neck, tugging him down to meet those lips in a fashion that is _ ravenous. _Slade can’t help but marvel at the passion behind that searching tongue, the soft moans he coaxes from Todd’s lips before he pulls back. 

Grayson’s eyes sparkle, sharp and alive, when they meet Todd’s. “Missed you too, little wing. We’ll have to make up for lost time, hmm?” 

Todd groans at the suggestion, nails scraping lightly across Slade’s scalp when his fist constricts reflexively. “You’re teasing me, saying shit like that, Dickie. I’m all hot and bothered here.” 

Grayson hums low in his throat, his gaze sliding down to meet Slade’s. It draws his stomach into a tight knot when the crime lord smiles down at him with blistering mirth. “Seems you’re not the only one. Our guest is looking a little left out, Jay.” 

“How about you get him riled up then, baby,” Jason says, and the desire in his tone makes Slade jolt. It’s dark and commanding, falling into a rhythm that Slade can sense, without knowing the pattern. 

It has an immediate effect on Grayson. The man’s weight settles lower into his hips, his spine slipping into a slight curve as his eyes flatten with want. There’s a pliancy to the motions, but Slade has no qualms about the thin lethality that underlines the man’s form. He knows what Grayson is capable of - what he has already achieved in the few years he’s had to establish himself in Bludhaven - and it makes wariness flood Slade’s senses. 

When Grayson shifts and slides down to one knee in front of the officer, Slade reels back instinctively. Long fingers lace up into his hair, replacing Todd’s as his hand slips away, and then Slade’s being jerked forward, too stunned to counteract the force. 

The lips that find Slade’s, pressing them open with the barest scrape of teasing teeth, are softer than anything he’s ever felt. He hums at the taste of the man in his mouth, pinned beneath his hunger as Grayson swipes a tongue over his own, tilting to coax him deeper. Slade doesn’t realise he’s chasing that slick muscle until Grayson pulls back with a soft laugh, lips flushed red as he grins down where Slade’s pulling against the grip in his hair. 

It makes embarrassment flood him briefly, before anger resettles in his blood. Fortifies him against the charm in the younger man’s bright blue gaze, the eager swipe of his tongue over those plush lips, before he yanks Slade’s throat open. 

He has enough time to snarl a protest, a warning, and then Grayson mouths up the ridge of his windpipe, descending again to suck a bruise against his pulse. It makes Slade’s veins thrum, makes the blood pooling in his skull churn dangerously. 

“You make such a gorgeous gift,” the man whispers, so soft Slade nearly misses the praise. He starts at the words, but whatever reflexive dissent was rising to his lips dies when Grayson’s free hand skirts down his taut abdomen, tickling beneath the edge of his pressed shirt. “Can’t believe I get to unwrap you, Officer Wilson.” 

Then those long fingers are closing around the end of his belt, yanking it free from its loops with a force that rocks Slade on his knees. The show of power, of strength, makes something dark and hot curl in Slade’s gut; the promise of a challenge, the threat of an equal. 

Grayson pauses, drinking in his reaction with a slowly dawning grin that makes Slade hate him. “What d’you know, Jaybird,” he purrs, tone velvet, “Wilson likes being manhandled.” 

“No shit,” Todd murmurs above him, and then there’s a hand on the back of his neck, yanking him back into a sharp arch that makes him bark an objection. Todd’s smile is lethal around the edges, sharp in the depths of those entrancing eyes. “Sounds like the perfect fit then, baby.” 

Slade frowns, mouth opening to demand an end to the cryptic bullshit the pair are passing back and forth above him. He doesn't get a single word out before Grayson's taking advantage of his slack mouth, lips closing over his. The groan that Grayson pours between his lips is aroused, and it’s joined swiftly by hands that roam over him, shoving up underneath his shirt as Grayson pants needily against him. 

It steals Slade’s breath, makes his concussion throb against the front of his skull with a spiteful vengeance, drowning out reason as Grayson presses himself flush against the line of Slade’s held-captive body. Todd’s hand massages the back of his neck almost fondly, splitting his attention dizzily between the asphyxiation and the way his body reacts to the overstimulation. The flush that crawls up his neck is slow and consuming, burning him alive from the inside out. 

It’s not quite enough to drown out the churning confusion at the tongue that lathers his skin, alternating between mouthing down his throat and locking over his lips. He thought Todd had brought him here to kill him, dispose of his corpse somewhere his ex-wife would have envied. Not present him as a gift for Grayson to devour. 

“He doesn’t understand,” Todd murmurs above him, and Slade _ hates _ how his partner can read him like a book, analyse every microexpression in a way that only the people closest to him have ever earned the right to interpret. 

Grayson pulls back off him with a harsh gasp, lips plush and slick as he pants. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide and dark as he lifts them to Todd. That languid, knowing smile spreads across his features. “He will. It’s a lot to take in.” 

Todd scoffs. “He hasn’t taken anything in yet.” 

Slade’s features scrunch at the euphemism, but he’s distracted when Grayson turns those coy eyes on him again. “Maybe he should then.” 

This time those fingers are much more efficient when they free him of his belt, tossing it aside without a thought. Grayson’s eyes don’t leave his, drinking down his every twitch and expression; when he shoves his palm beneath the hem of his pants, Slade doesn’t disappoint. It punches the breath from his lungs in a startled gasp as Grayson’s hand wraps around the base of his stiffening cock, a predatory leer to that near-innocent smile. 

“Now he gets it,” Todd purrs appreciatively, and Grayson preens at the approval. Slade’s just summoning a cutting retort about praise and kinks, when Grayson’s palms slides up the length of his cock with a pressure that’s just this side of firm, dragging a stuttering groan from Slade’s throat. 

“Likes pain, too,” Grayson reports, and ducks down to bite into the tendons of his throat. "Or maybe just a _ firm hand._" 

Slade snarls, eyes fluttering as he tries to focus, tries to maintain a modicum of control where he’s trapped between the two criminals. “Stones and glass houses, kid,” he grits out, and is greeted with a hum of amusement against his neck. 

“Oh, Dickie likes pain as much as the next person,” Todd chimes in with severe amusement, holding Slade still beneath the crime lord’s ministrations. “But you know what really gets him going? Being _ used_, ain’t that right, Dickie?” 

Grayson’s voice is considerably more breathless when he glances up, lashes fluttering beautifully, and answers, “Yeah, Jay. Wanna be used by you. By you both.” 

Todd laughs, sharp and thrilled. “He can wait his turn. Get up here.” 

Grayson rises to his feet pliantly, standing still and patient as Todd yanks open his belt with a single possessive hand. The shirt is soon to follow, Todd trailing bright red streaks up the man’s torso as he unbuttons the silk, all but ripping it off his shoulders. Grayson’s breath sounds a little short in his lungs when Slade watches Todd wrap a hand around his already-hard length, giving him a coy stroke that has Grayson’s hips twitching, has him reaching forward to lace a hand through Slade’s hair for support. 

“God, Jay,” he groans, “I missed this.” 

“Missed you too, baby,” Todd reaffirms in a low, gravelly tone, working him until Grayson is biting off sharp mewls, his cock flushing with the attention. “Now be a good boy and fuck his throat.” 

Slade has enough time for the surprise to register, for one of Todd’s thumbs to hook around his slack jaw and force his mouth open as Grayson thrusts forward without another second’s hesitation, pulling Slade forwards onto his cock. 

It’s been… a long time since Slade has sucked someone off. He’s not inexperienced, by any means; he’s just usually more suited to being on the receiving end than the giving. He’s mildly surprised by how intact his muscle memory is as he bows to Todd’s firm grip, flattening his tongue to ease the slide. 

It’s been even longer since Slade has been manhandled. He’s not an easy person to wrangle; towering over six foot and boasting the prowess of a seasoned army brat means that it takes more than a little effort for his partner to bring him to heel, with strength or tongue or otherwise. Todd’s not _ small, _ by any means, but Slade can’t deny that he’s a little impressed that the kid had it in him. His admiration is rivalled only by his mortification at how easily his body responds to the stimulus, his cock swelling as Grayson grinds against his tongue with a long, breathless moan. 

As much as Slade would swear six days to Sunday to the contrary, Grayson is not unattractive. He’s got the high cheekbones and strong jaw of the more handsome of Bludhaven’s elite, but those long eyelashes and plush lips soften his features into the more distinct realm of _ pretty. _ The cut of his hips and the complimentary curve of his waist doesn’t go astray either. And God, Slade didn’t think he’d be enamoured by the man’s _ girth, _ but he can’t stifle the soft keen that rises in his throat at the feeling of Grayson’s hips stuttering beneath his exhale. 

When he looks up at the man, Grayson is staring down to where his length disappears between Slade’s lips, brow pinched in benediction. It makes Slade flush with the beginnings of praise, of reverence, and he shoves the budding sensation down. He’s always been more concerned with his partner’s satisfaction than his own, and damn Grayson, but Slade’s not even inclined to bite down on that slick cock, even if Todd’s thumb wasn’t hooked between his jaws. He’s too stunned by the image the man makes above him, trembling and awed. 

Slade swallows against the intrusion, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose as Dick’s cock twitches against his tongue. Then he feels the press of Jason’s thighs at the back of his skull, his thick length obvious as he rocks forward, forcing Slade deeper, trapped between them. He gives a choked growl of protest, blinking as he focuses on letting his jaw go slack, letting Dick penetrate the back of his throat. 

Dick moans breathily, the noises halfway to whines. “Jay,” he whispers, and makes a desperate, satisfied sound. “Jay, he’s so warm, so- _ fuck, _ Jay, this is- this was an amazing idea, babe, oh my God-” 

Jason shifts forwards, a hand coming up to wrap around Dick’s jaw and drag him into an aggressive kiss. Slade can feel the tremor and flex of Dick’s stomach against his nose, the way the man melts into the ferocity of it. He’s almost enthralled by the idea of this man, this mafioso, kowtowing to a brat like Todd, and it startles him when Jason starts to thrust forward again, forcing Slade onto Grayson’s cock with a wet sound of protest. The cuffs bite into his wrists, but don’t waver, and Slade resigns himself to the task. 

He’s almost gotten used to the rhythm of thrusting, the steady rock of Jason’s hips against his skull, when he feels fingers wind into his hair, and he peels his eyelids back to glance up at Todd. 

“How’s it feel, old man?” Jason croons, but his voice is too raspy to be condescending. “He’s got a gorgeous cock, doesn’t he?” 

Dick mewls at the praise, hips fluttering against Slade’s lips until Jason steps back, pulling Slade off with him. He gasps obscenely as soon as he’s clear, the string of saliva binding him to Dick’s member snapping when Jason leans down to murmur in his ear. 

“He’s got an even better mouth - don’t you, babe? You wanna try it out?” he asks Slade with an amused lilt. Slade’s certain his concussion is making itself known, muddying his comprehension. 

“You wanna,” Slade coughs, and swallows to work past the ache in his throat before trying again, “you wanna run that one by me again, Todd?” 

Jason smirks, and pulls at his hair, guiding Slade relentlessly to his feet. His knees ache when he gets them under himself, the joints protesting their idleness as he rocks back on his heels. Jason’s hand is a vice around his bicep, holding him firm as Slade lets the wash of vertigo roll off his shoulders. 

Dick watches him steady himself against Jason’s bulk with a coy, patient smirk. Then he slides down to his knees between Slade’s boots. 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Slade mutters, and pulls on the cuffs again. They’re frustratingly firm against the bruised skin of his wrists. “You’re honestly going to suck my-” 

His half-protest is disturbed when Dick swallows down the entire length of his cock in one fell swoop, pausing when his lips close around Slade’s base. His throat flexes once around Slade’s cock, coaxing, and the curse it pries from his lips is damning. 

Slade’s not _ small, _ by any estimation. And the sight of Grayson, the man Slade’s been conspiring to take down for more than two years, on his knees with his nose buried in the curls at the base of Slade’s stomach, is breathtaking. 

“Told you,” Jason purrs, but his tone is too awed to be condescending. “Our big bird likes dick, ain’t that right, Dickie?” 

Dick evidently disapproves of the quip, because he scrapes his teeth lightly against the underside of Slade’s cock when he ascends, a litany of curses spilling from Slade’s lips in response. He feels unbearably hot, unbearably hard, in the velvet heat of Dick’s practiced mouth. And Slade can’t help the thrill of pleasure that curls through him at the realisation that the crime lord not only gets on his knees, but apparently does it often enough to be a notch above exceptional at this. 

Todd is one lucky fucking man. 

“Stay on him, would you, Dickie?” Jason calls down abruptly, and the man gives a resounding hum around Slade’s cock, making his hips shutter at the sensation. He clamps down on the groan that threatens to spill up through his throat, focusing instead on the painful bite of Todd’s fingers around his bicep. “Walk.” 

It takes Slade a stunned moment before he realises Jason’s not being coy. He guides Slade backwards, and his boots stumble over the tile as he shifts to maintain his balance. It becomes apparent very quickly that Jason is leading him to the deep lounge seats behind them. 

But it’s the sight of Dick, lips still sliding down Slade’s cock, shuffling gracefully forward on his knees to follow, that nearly does him in. The man trails him with a glint of amusement to his eyes, and doesn’t pull off him until Slade finishes collapsing back into the leather. 

Then he rises with an_ obscene _ sound, brushes his fingers back through his fringe to push it out of his lidded eyes, and sets himself back to the task with an almost desperate fervency. 

“Christ, kid,” Slade groans, fighting the urge to fuck up into Grayson’s throat. The hands splayed over his thighs clench, nails biting as Dick whimpers around his cock and levels those bright baby blues on him, dazed and pleading. 

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Jason croons breathlessly, and Dick preens beneath the praise, Slade’s cock scraping the back of his throat. The older man gasps sharply, heat flashing through him, adding to the pool simmering in his gut. “I love showing him off like this, giving the little exhibitionist slut his time in the limelight. Can barely get off without an audience these days, can you, baby?” 

There’s a twinkle to Dick’s gaze when it slides to look up at Todd, a coy mischief to the way he hollows his cheeks and drives Slade relentlessly towards his edge. Slade would almost call it sloppy, if it weren’t for the very deliberate way Grayson sucks at his tip whenever he ascends, throat flexing around what feels like his whole cock when he descends again. It’s maddeningly disciplined, guaranteed to drag Slade - willingly or not - up against that precipice. 

He can feel his breath shortening in his lungs, that simmering heat expanding out from the epicentre at his core, flooding the whole of Slade with that tight, vibrating pleasure as he crests his orgasm. 

Dick pulls off him with a wet gasp, exchanging the loss for a firm grip around his cock. Slade’s protest dies in his throat, replaced by a whine when Dick slides his coarse palm up his length, keeping him unbearably hard with an air of almost lazy indifference. It’s slower than his mouth had been, looser than the velvet heat of his throat, and against his will, Slade rues the loss. 

He wipes his spit-slick chin with the back of his free hand before propping up on his elbow on the seat. Jason meets his fond gaze when Dick asks, “How do you want me, big boy?” 

Todd casts Slade a conspiratorial wink when he bends down to lick his way into Grayson’s mouth, pouring himself into the man like he could drown in him. Dick’s hand doesn’t stop moving on Slade’s cock, dragging stunted jerks from his hips with his torturous rhythm. 

“Want you to ride him, baby,” Jason purrs when he breaks off, whispering the words down the arch of Dick’s throat, across the slopes of his bare shoulders and down his spine as Dick arches and groans. Jason circles him like an animal, gait heavy and gaze equally so where it drags down the curves of his lover. 

Then Dick’s hand falls from Slade’s cock, the loss of even that slack friction driving Slade to snarl in response. Dick smiles coyly when he rises to his feet, showing off the roiling curves of that stomach as he kicks out of his slacks, draws every gaze to the flex of those thighs as he hooks one knee over Slade’s waist. 

Dick shoves Slade down on his back, crushing his hands beneath him as he hits the unyielding leather. His cock is hard and leaking against his stomach as he settles himself over Slade, nimble fingers picking open the buttons of Slade’s shirt and rolling it back to his elbows. 

“You really are such a _ specimen, _” Grayson purrs, the edge to his tone as lethal as it is breathless. There’s a yank, somewhere down near Slade’s ankle, and then his laces are being picked apart by Todd’s skillful fingers, his shoes pulled from his feet. “Can’t wait to ride you into the ground, Wilson. Might even be able to pull that stick out of your ass while we’re at it.” 

“Get fucked, Grayson,” Slade retorts on a growl, shifting his hands from the uncomfortable small of his back when Jason lifts his hips to rid him of his pants. He closes his eyes at the wash of cool air over his cock when Dick drags them down, calloused fingers unexpectedly soft and gentle when they trace back up his thighs. 

“I plan to,” Dick retorts with a broad grin, pushing back into a high kneel when he settles with his legs flush to Slade’s hips. Pinning him to the lounge as much as those half-lidded eyes are. Slade tries to ignore the way his cock twitches at the sight of Grayson above him, bared and on display for his unwavering eyes. 

Dick grins at the blatant voyeurism, weight sliding over his hips as he slides a palm down the tendons of his own neck, Slade’s gaze falling to his clavicle as his digits hook into that collarbone. Fingers dance down the curve of his sternum, thumb snagging on the twisted scar stretched over his ribcage where Slade's bullet had sunk home. It draws a sharp inhale from Slade when the man’s cock jumps at the press of a nail into that wound, lashes fluttering as a shudder ripples through him. 

“Fuck,” Slade breathes, and has to pause to swallow, ensnared. “You really do get off on pain, don’t you, kid?” 

Grayson grins, but Slade jumps when Jason hooks the sole of one boot up on the leather to watch them both. His leer is both adoring and smug as he leans down to bite viciously into the joint of Dick’s throat and shoulder, dragging a loud groan from the kneeling man. 

“Give him something to really look at, baby,” Jason hisses into the bruise he’s left on Dick’s warm skin, one palm dropping to wrap against Dick’s hip with painful pressure. 

Grayson nods, tipping forward to lay a palm over Slade’s navel, brace himself as his spine arches. His other hand lifts, Jason’s hand wrapping once around his wrist to press a vicious kiss into the pulse there, before he produces a small bottle from God knows where and dribbles what Slade can only assume is lube onto the captive digits. 

The way Dick’s thighs flutter around Slade when he eases a slicked finger into himself is mesmerising. Slade dazedly wishes his hands were free, if only so he could wrap his larger palms over Grayson’s thighs, imprint his fingerprints there. Mark up Todd’s boss just to hear both of the brats whine. 

Grayson spears fingers into himself, almost impatient as he hastens to prepare himself for Slade’s cock. The disregard for himself, the _ eagerness _ Dick shows, is enough to have Slade groaning, tilting his head back against the seats. 

It’s not enough to remember that this is a game for them, that he’s just a tool for their pleasure. When Dick shimmies up his thighs, rising into a high kneel as he reaches back to wrap a hand around Slade, he pries his eyes open to watch. It’s too soon, too sudden, after Grayson’s teasing lips, he _ can’t _ be- 

It settles for Slade, as Dick takes him slowly, inexorably, to the root, exactly what this is. Exactly how they intend to strip him of the last of his pride, how they intend to use him for their own pleasure, work him for their own release without care for his own relief. Grayson intends to reduce him to nothing more than their toy, another expendable man in the crime lord’s growing ranks. 

The intimacy, when Grayson slides his palms up over Slade’s broad shoulders, fully seated on his cock, makes Slade’s stomach roil. His blood still warms beneath the touch, a moan coaxed from his lips when Dick mouths up the line of his throat. 

It’s still not enough to curb the flush of arousal that spills up through his chest when Dick rolls back against him, torturing the sensitive glans of his cock as he works them both up to a panting, exerted fervour. Fast and rough, angling himself to ensure Slade strikes that sensitive bundle of nerves every time Grayson rolls down onto his hips. Chasing his own pleasure with an enthusiasm that leaves Slade breathless. 

It makes Slade’s heels dig into the leather, flexing upwards to meet Dick, and revelling in the sharp whine of pleasure it produces when Grayson slides back down with trembling thighs. Slade’s blood feels like it’s simmering, reignited by the sight of the man above him, sweat gathering as he takes Slade’s cock to the root, nails digging into the skin over his sternum. 

Slade’s so distracted by the visage that he almost misses when Jason hoists himself onto the leather, heel digging into the upholstery between Slade’s legs. It takes him a moment longer to realise Todd’s half-undressed. The bright Bludhaven blues of his shirt are open to reveal the expanse of his abdomen, the cradle of those hips as they dip down into his slacks, which hang open to reveal his considerable length. 

The kid’s full of surprises, Slade will give him that. He’s certainly not lacking, and the larger man wonders absently if Grayson likes his men bigger, if it’s as much as a turn on for the crime lord as wrapping his hands around a smaller partner is for Slade. Kicks himself for finding him in a circumstance where he’s analysing a goddamn _ crime lord’s _ kinks, while the man grinds down on Slade’s cock and punches the air from his lungs. 

Jason leans forward to place his hand over Grayson’s jaw, fingers wrapping gentle as lace to arch him backwards. Dick’s moans rise to a sharper, soprano pitch when the angle shifts Slade inside him, but his lips part all the same to suck Jason down. 

The sight of Jason’s cock, visible against the straining muscles of Dick’s throat, is almost enough to have Slade coming there and then. It’s only the blissed, smug look on Todd’s features that keep him rooted to the pulse of fury deep in his gut, staving off his orgasm as Grayson twitches around him. 

Dick’s thighs shudder as he rises, strong and powerful as he leverages himself down on Slade’s cock, his own pleasure self-evident as he swallows Jason down with practiced care. Slade’s abysmally close to his own completion as he watches Todd’s brow pinch, the way he doesn’t so much as rock into Grayson’s throat, letting the man fuck back onto his cock himself, trembling between them. 

Slade gasps as leverages his head back, brow pinching as the heat in his gut coils and winds tight, drawing taut as Slade eases into the lull before the rise, stilling as Grayson fucks down onto his cock. 

Dick lifts off him with a sigh of regret, and the choked sound that rings up through Slade’s throat is horrifically close to a sob. His head jerks up, noting that Grayson is no longer sucking Todd off. He groans, chasing the sensation as Grayson eases Slade’s painfully hard cock out of himself with a deliberateness that has the larger man’s toes curling amidst his rage and helplessness. Dick flashes him a mouthful of teeth, laying the heat of his palm flat across the base of Slade’s stomach, right above his cock, just within reach- 

“Gonna fuck me now, babe?” Dick asks breathily, and Slade moans remorsefully. 

Jason’s laugh is tight but eager, and he guides Dick down onto Slade’s torso, the fist in his hair pressing the side of Grayson’s face against Slade’s collarbone. His cock brushes against Slade’s, prying another twitch and a groan from the larger man as he settles again, presented. 

Then Jason’s hands wrap around Dick’s hips, yanking him mercilessly up onto his knees astride Slade’s thighs. “You haven’t come yet, have you, baby?” Jason croons, pressing a thumb into him to make Dick whine. 

It hiccups into a choppy laugh when Jason slides the digit back out. “Neither has he.” 

“Fuck you,” Slade chokes around a gasp, wincing when Grayson layers a line of kisses across his collarbone. Dick pauses when Jason drags the tip of his cock over his rim, stilling and shuddering above Slade in vibrating, desperate glory. 

Jason croons above him, thumb massaging into his hipbone as he stills behind Dick, teasing them both. “You ready, baby?” 

“_Please,_” Dick gasps, all desperation and adulation and _ need. _

Slade feels when Jason slams home between Dick’s hips, settling there and sighing like there was never any doubt where he belonged. He shifts his weight, the circular roll of pelvis translating down to Slade when Grayson keens, and his cock twitches where it lays against Slade’s. It makes sensation spiral hot and heavy through the breadth of him, and Slade shoves his head back into the leather with a grunt. 

He can feel every shift of their weight, every slide in and out of Grayson as he grinds against Slade’s chest, grip bruising around his ribs as he gasps his pleasure into Slade’s collarbones. The enveloping heat of Grayson trapping Slade’s cock between their stomach is maddening, is _ not enough, _ and he yearns for release. He’s edging close enough to desperation to consider asking the crime lord slumped over his torso to take him in hand, to drive Slade over the crest of his orgasm until he’s bellowing himself hoarse. 

It’s nearly enough that Slade considers begging for a moment. 

Then Jason leans forward and latches his palm around Slade’s windpipe, pressing hard and painful into the arteries on either side of his throat. Slade’s jaw slackens immediately, a bleat of surprise dying at the end of his choke as he twitches and blinks up at him with wide, panicked eyes. 

“You didn’t think,” Jason gasps, and pauses to grind his cock into Dick, “that we were going to let you live, did you?” 

The words settle like cement in Slade’s gut, and on his next thrust, Slade arches up, trying to dislodge Grayson where he’s settled on the larger man’s torso, limp and boneless. That slackness coils into firm denial when Jason slams into Dick next, his hands sliding down the lengths of Slade’s arms, circling his forearms briefly before he presses down, _ pins _ him, with all his weight. Ensures all of Todd’s weight translates through when he next grinds down between Grayson’s hips, both of them pressing Slade down into the leather. 

He jerks beneath Todd’s unrelenting grip, desperation rising and then cresting without crescendo when his lungs begin to ache. That sluggish lethargy settles into Slade’s bones, his throat working beneath Jason’s palm as he struggles to draw in breath and doesn’t find the relief he’s seeking. 

Jason’s leer is wolfish, smug and vicious beneath his bliss as he pounds into Grayson with distinct purpose, chasing his release as Dick whines and mewls at the ferocity. Then Todd’s pace changes, grip releasing just enough to flood Slade’s bloodstream with sweet solace before it contracts almost instantly. 

It’s too soon, not enough, and Slade’s skull throbs with the futility of it. 

“Say bye-bye, baby,” Jason croons breathlessly above him, and it takes Slade longer than it should to realise it’s not him he’s speaking to. 

Dick pauses, turning his head to fix Slade with those damned baby blues, depthless in their torment and drowned in a calm maliciousness that Slade can’t help but shiver beneath. “Bye-bye, Slade,” he murmurs on a lilting note as the corners of Slade’s vision sweep in to drag him down. Then Jason picks up his rhythm with a vengeance, driving Dick’s whimpers to gratified screams, and Slade twitches beneath them, trapped. 

The last thing he hears, _ feels, _ are Grayson’s nails between his ribs, Todd’s thumb digging into the tendons of his neck as they both shudder atop him, suspended in their pleasure. The black chokes him, his limbs heavy, and Slade isn’t sure he ever comes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I asked, has anyone ever tried edging Slade Wilson? 
> 
> I enjoyed this concept way, _way_ more than I should have. But hopefully you did too! 
> 
> A massive thank you to this Prompter, who I'm indebted to heart and soul for their gorgeous content. I'm still dying to hear about those promised OCs. Don't think you can get away that easy. <3


	15. Paragore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M, Multi 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Dick Grayson/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M, Safewords, Handjobs, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Praise Kink, Biting, Hurt/Comfort, Polyamory, Established Relationship 
> 
> **Words:** 2976 
> 
> **Summary:** Sometimes, when Jason gets that green gleam in his eye, Dick and Tim have to work him down from his mania the only way they know how.

_ Title is from the Greek “parígoro: to console or comfort”. _

* * *

Dick’s seen Jason angry before. Seen him frustrated, too. But this is something different, something separate. When he’s agitated like this, when his eyes are tinged with that unnatural green… 

Dick crosses the Cave as soon as the other vigilantes have cleared out to patch wounds and warm down, passes Tim’s vigilant form to approach where Jason is fiddling around with a report on the computer. He’s not making any progress, just moving to keep himself busy. 

Agitated. Irritated. _ Manic. _

Dick stops at his hip, takes one glance back at Tim’s concerned expression, and reaches down to grab Jason’s wrist above the mouse. Jason’s gaze rises to meet his, brow pinching in a frown that doesn’t clear the haze in his eyes. 

“Tell me our word,” Dick says, jaw flexing. 

That drags him back to some semblance of consciousness, because Jason’s lips part and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Dick-” 

“If you want us to take care of you,” Dick interrupts, forcing himself to tamper down on the urge to sweep Jason’s fringe off his forehead, to press his lips to his soft skin. To remind him that he’s _ fragile, _ and vulnerable. That he deserves to be protected, to be preserved. “Then tell me our word.” 

He won’t do that to Jason - neither will Tim - until he gives them permission. Until he admits he needs their help, until he offers himself to them. Until he’s willing to concede that he’s hurting, and permit them to console him. To admit to himself that he’s deserving of their comfort. 

Jason’s jaw wavers, flexing as he swallows. He glances back at Tim, as if only just realising they’re alone, the three of them together. Then he returns to Dick, lips parting to say, “Paragore.” 

“Bedroom, now,” Dick orders, and Jason’s rising out of the chair before he even gets to the second syllable. Tim snatches his wrist as he passes, shadowing him as they head for the stairs. 

He pauses to file Jason’s report, lock down the computer and the Cave proper, and heads up after them, weaving past the grandfather clock and up the stairs with little interruption. Anyone who lingers in the halls is beat, turning in for a rare early night, so Dick finds his way to Jason’s room - in the guest wing, he hadn’t wanted to claim his old room - with little difficulty. 

Tim has already pulled Jason onto the bed by the time Dick latches the door behind himself. They don’t even look up from where Tim’s got both of his hands fisted in the back of Jason’s hair, drinking him down with his lips like he’s drowning. 

Dick can see the tightness in Jason’s shoulders, the tension that draws his spine straight and rigid beneath Tim’s ministrations, as if he’s terrified if he lays hands on him, he’ll break him. It makes something ache in the deeper parts of Dick, stoking some raw, unhealed wound. 

He knows Jason worries about his past, now that he’s been tentatively brought back into the family fold. Jason has an infuriating habit of carrying his sins with him wherever he goes, tallying up the wrongs he’s committed against them all, counting the scars that mar their skin. No one bears more scars by Jason’s hands than Tim himself, and Dick knows how much it frustrates him to see Jason flinch every time he sees the white line layered over the base of his throat. 

Dick crosses the floor, nimbly stripping back the zipper of his suit so that he can fold the kevlar down to his waist as he sets a knee on the bed behind Jason. The larger man flinches at the motion, breaking away from Tim to address the sudden threat, and guilt flashes through his gaze when he realises it’s only Dick. 

Tim sees it too, and he moans, low and soft in the top of his throat. His hands come up to cup Jason’s cheeks, force him to turn back to him as he arches up against the line of Jason’s body, pressing them together. His tone is tinged with sadness, with need, when he says, “Touch me, Jay. C’mon, I want to feel you.” 

Jason groans into his mouth, hands rising briefly to rest on Tim’s hips before they jerk back, shaking. Dick can see the uncertainty in the twitch of his fingers, the fear that he’ll do something he can’t take back in his frazzled state. Tim pulls off him immediately, gaze heated and stern as it snares Jason’s. 

Tim lifts Jason’s hand between his two palms, pulls it to rest flush against his windpipe, layered over their scar, fusing their heated skin together. Jason chokes on a half-sob, his grip constricting briefly. Dick watches Tim’s Adam’s apple bob, his breath shorten beneath Jason’s touch. He doesn’t flinch. 

“You’re not gonna hurt me, Jay,” Tim says, his tone steel and sure. “Look at me, Jason. You’d never hurt me.” 

“I have,” Jason hisses, his gaze pained, agonized. “Tim, baby, I _ have. _I’ve hurt you and Dickie and-” 

“No.” Tim’s tone is flat, cracking down like a whip. Jason winces, and it softens, one of Tim’s hands parting to reach out and trace his jawline. “No, Jay, you haven’t hurt us. Wasn’t you, babe. Wasn’t anything you could’ve done. But you’re in control now, Jay. You’ve got us, and we’ve got you, and _ you’re _in control of it.” 

Jason’s fingers flex against the flush of Tim’s throat, and Dick watches Tim hold his gaze with impenetrable patience, snaring those blue-green orbs. Then Jason’s hand shifts, sliding up the column of Tim’s throat until the dip of his thumb is pressing Tim’s jaw back, tilting his head as Tim’s eyes flutter closed. 

“You got me, Jay,” Tim whispers. “I trust you. You’ve got me. All yours.” 

Jason’s throat works, a muscle in his jaw clenching as Tim hangs there, suspended from his outstretched arm, at Jason’s mercy, _ offering _ himself to Jason’s mercy. And then a murmur, feather-soft and relieved, “Okay.” 

Tim’s eyes slide open, his hooded blues lowering until they meet Jason’s. He keeps his head back, his throat exposed and answers with more firm certainty, “Okay. Put me down.” 

Jason’s elbow sags, his hand withdrawing, pulling Tim with him as he eases him down from that high kneel back to the sheets of their bed. Tim exhales steadily once he’s settled, but doesn’t let Jason pull his hand away yet, nails biting into his knuckles. 

Tim’s other hand lifts to drag a thumb down Jason’s lower lip, rolling the rosy flesh with an enthralled stare. “Okay, Jay. We’re going to take care of you now, yeah? And you can take care of us. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes,” Jason croaks. “Wanna take care of you, babybird. Wanna take care of you and Dickie. Please, can I-?” 

Then Tim’s folding into him, fingers sliding through Jason’s hair to press his forehead down against Tim’s collarbone as Jason’s shoulders heave and shake. 

It’s Dick who speaks, meeting Tim’s gaze over Jason’s trembling back. “Absolutely, little wing. Any time. Always.” 

“Get me out of my head,” Jason mumbles against Tim’s skin, shifting to turn his head until his mouth is free. “Please, Dick, Tim.” 

“Get undressed,” Tim says softly, and Jason pulls back immediately to roll the jacket off his shoulders. Dick helps him, folding the jacket aside and pressing his palms to the meat of Jason’s lower back, slides them the whole way up his spine to shuck the shirt and body armour beneath. Jason chokes and melts beneath his touch, reaching back to claim Dick’s lips as his hands drop to unbuckle his holsters. 

Tim shimmies out of his suit, pouring himself into Jason’s lap the instant he’s bare, like he can’t bear not to be touching him. Jason turns to answer his wandering lips, and Dick takes the opportunity to ditch his own suit on the floor. 

Then he pauses to watch Jason lift Tim as he pulls up into a high kneel, the ribbed muscles of his stomach twitching when Tim crosses his ankles at the rise of Jason’s ass, kicking down his pants with fervency. Dick stifles a laugh and curls his fingers over Jason’s narrow waist, kisses up every one of his ribs as he pushes the last articles of clothing off him. 

Jason trembles and sighs when he’s finally naked, finally bared for them as he shudders beneath their attentive mouths and blinks up at the ceiling. “Don’t know what I ever do to deserve this,” he breathes, and Tim’s responding growl is echoed by Dick, who seizes a biteful of Jason’s left hip. 

Jason yelps, the sound warping into a groan when Tim places a twin mark on the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

“Fuck, but you two make it hard on me,” he groans, fingers splaying along Tim’s spine. His other hand falls to Tim’s cock, and Dick hears the smaller man stutter on his next breath when Jason gives him a slow stroke. 

So Dick pulls back and stretches along the bedsheets until he can reach the bedside drawer, fumble in its depths for the small bottle he’s after. When he turns back, Tim’s rutting short and sharp against Jason’s stomach, biting his lips as Jason sucks on the scar at his throat. 

His lips find their way to the backs of Jason’s shoulders as he uncaps the bottle, and Dick revels in the responding moan it elicits as he slicks up his fingers. Then he slides them down the cleft of Jason’s ass, his other hand falling to the arch of Jason’s hip. Jason breaks off Tim’s throat with a shudder when Dick eases the first finger into him, arching his back to give him better access as Dick mouths down the knots of Jason’s spine. 

“Relax for us, Jay,” Dick whispers into his supernova skin, coaxing him open as Jason whines. Tim hums his agreement, kissing Jason’s forehead when Dick brushes his prostate and Jason jolts forward. “Open up to us, little wing, let us in.” 

“Dick,” Jason moans, and gasps when he adds a second finger. The elder follows it up by stroking against his walls, feeling Jason tremble when Tim’s hand slides down to palm the head of his cock. “_Tim._” 

“Let go, Jay,” Tim says breathlessly, and Jason’s groan morphs into a sharp cry of benediction when Dick circles up against that bundle of nerves. “Gonna get you feeling so good for us.” 

By the time Dick has a third finger in and is lazily scissoring Jason, his head is tipped forward against Tim’s collarbone, the muscles down his back and shoulders twitching with the effort of not grinding down onto Dick’s hand. There’s sweat gathering around the ridges of his spine, and Dick circles within him once more before he pulls out. Kneels up over Jason’s shoulder to meet Tim’s red lips, groan into his lover’s mouth. 

Tim doesn’t need any instruction or prompt; he’s sliding off of Jason’s lap in the next moment, out from under his constricting grip. Dick reaches out to grab Jason’s jaw, turn his lips around to meet him. He drags him back with him as Dick shimmies up the bed, and Jason groans as he shifts to follow Dick’s pull, to keep their lips sealed. 

Dick slumps back into the pillows, hair fanning out around his crown as Tim retrieves the bottle of lube and starts preparing himself. Jason’s lips part from Dick’s, chasing down his chin and the line of his throat with desperate fervour, his palms hot where they pin Dick’s hips to the sheets. He sighs and arches as Jason kisses down his sternum, his abdomen, dipping his tongue briefly into Dick’s navel. It makes Dick’s blood sizzle. 

He feels when Tim breeches him, feels the way Jason tenses and then exhales like he’s crumbling apart. Watches the way he folds down as Tim rocks into him, brow pinching over Dick’s iliac furrow, lips parting over his overheated skin. When Tim buries himself to the hilt in one long, unyielding thrust and bottoms out, Jason keens into Dick’s thigh, pressing his forehead against the older man’s hip. 

“Tim, baby,” Jason croaks, shoulders rolling forward as the line of his spine dips. “God, need to be fucked, Timbers.” 

Tim hooks one hand over the rise of his hip - exactly where Dick’s hand had rested - and splays the other over Jason’s lower back, digging his palm in until Jason slides into that pliant arch. “That’s it, Jay,” Tim breathes, and pulls back to slam home again. 

Dick slides a hand through Jason’s hair, twisting fingers into his crown as he hitches his knees up, guides Jason down between his legs. The larger man goes easily, bitten lips dragging down Dick’s scars until he nudges beneath his balls, tongue flashing out to lick at Dick’s rim. 

“Jay, so good, Jay,” Dick groans, grip constricting as his hips lift from the bed. Jason’s huge palms wrap over his thighs, knocking his knees over Jason’s shoulders as he bends to mouth at Dick’s entrance, working him open with his tongue. Dick shudders and slides into the sensation, throwing his head back into the pillows when Jason spears into him with the slick muscle. 

Jason can work wonders with that mouth. Dick loses himself beneath his ministrations, moaning openly as every thrust from Tim drives Jason deeper into him, every scrape across his prostate making Jason fuck his tongue into Dick more desperately. He can feel the vibrations of Jason’s whines and keens between his thighs, hears them grow in frequency when Tim picks up a rough, passionate rhythm, chasing his release. 

Jason’s grip turns bruising against Dick’s thighs, his tongue burying into Dick’s ass when Tim bottoms out and stills inside him with a shout. Dick can feel Jason trembling, hear his sharp little sobs, knows he hasn’t come yet. Not for lack of wanting, but because he’s always more interested in Tim and Dick achieving their release before he tends to his own. Always putting others before himself. 

Dick clamps down on Jason’s temples with his knees, tugging the man away from him until his eyes flicker open, dazed and yearning. Dick smiles, hoists himself into a sit, pulling Jason with him until he can kiss him, slow and deep as Tim pulls out. He doesn’t open his eyes until he feels Tim’s hand on his ribs, nails scraping lightly. 

“I’m going to go clean up,” Tim breathes, and pauses to meet Dick’s lips. Between them, Jason groans, and Tim presses a kiss to his shoulder too. “I’ll be back soon, you two finish up.” 

Dick doesn’t wait any longer than it takes Tim to slide off the mattress and head for the ensuite, to switch their positions. Shoves Jason down into the pillows and straddles his waist. Bites across his collarbone once he has the bottle back in his palm, drives him to squirming as Dick slicks Jason’s cock up, revels in how hot it feels in his palm, how much he must be _ aching. _

Then Dick shoves back upright with a palm against Jason’s sternum, rising up to his knees as he lines up Jason’s cock with his hole and slowly lowers himself. It rolls up his spine in a trembling wave until Dick’s seated, and he takes a moment to bask in the sensation, in the oversensitivity as Jason’s thumb teases over the skin of his abdomen, resting lightly over his hips before they slide to his thighs. 

It’s only when Jason keens, soft and tentative, that Dick starts to move, rolling upwards and slamming back down. He adjusts his angle, driving Jason’s cock up against that sweet spot inside of him, and it forces a cry from Dick’s throat. 

It’s echoed by Jason, who lists back into the pillows, flushed and sweaty as he digs his heels into the mattress and arches to meet every one of Dick’s drops. His brow pinches in concentration, his cock twitching inside Dick as he fights to maintain control of himself, hold out for Dick, who’s riding the edge of his own release. 

So Dick wraps Jason's fringe around his fingers and yanks his head back against the pillows. “Wanna see those pretty blue eyes of yours, Jay.” 

Jason whines, but fixes his gaze on Dick with burning purpose. Like he’s the last man alive, like he’s the last sun burning out in the universe, like he can’t possibly imagine looking at anything else. 

“Wanna see when we get through to you, Jay,” Dick gasps, breathless but firm. “When we get it through that head of yours.” 

“Get what, Dickie?” 

“How much you mean to us, little wing,” Dick answers, and Jay’s expression is floored for the brief moment before it pinches into pained benediction, into relief and adulation, and then he’s coming. Dick keens and rides him through it, babbling, “So good, Jay, so important. Wouldn’t want you any other way, baby. All ours, all ours, all-” 

Then he’s toppling, tossing his head back as he shudders through his orgasm, sinking onto Jason as he cries out. His thighs tremble as he grinds down onto Jason, wishing he could sink into the core of him, get closer, _ be _ closer. 

By the time they both come back to themselves, Tim is crawling back onto the bed, mouthing up Jason’s jawline. His still-wet locks trail across Jason’s cheeks, leaving cold droplets as he turns to draw Dick into a slow, burning kiss. 

“Love you both,” Jason murmurs from beneath them, and Dick’s eyes slip open to glance at him. He’s smiling, lazy and content. “Love you both so, so much.” 

And his eyes are clear, and blue, and Dick drowns in them. 


	16. Rumors, Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature 
> 
> **Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Handcuffs, Threats of Violence, Identity Porn, Secret Relationship, Comedy 
> 
> **Words:** 2989 
> 
> **Summary:** Red Hood is kidnapped and held for ransom to extort Tim Drake. His captors aren't the seasoned professionals he was hoping for.

Tim’s in the middle of running through a shareholders report when his email notification center pings twice. He glances down at the unfamiliar sender without disrupting his spiel on their plans for a Southeast-Asian expansion, and pockets his phone again. 

The next notification, on the heels of the others, catches his attention, because it’s direct from his secretary and reads simply ‘Open inbox’. 

Tim frowns, pauses to flash the enquiring table of men in business suits a placating smile and entreats, “Sorry, gentlemen, I’ll be with you in just a moment.” 

He retreats back into his adjoining office, sliding the enormous door shut behind him as he crosses to the slab of desk. Tim doesn’t get the whole way across the expensive silk-woven carpet of Wayne Enterprises before he’s stuttering to a halt. 

_ Gift for WE CEO, _ stares back up at him from his email inbox, and Tim thumbs into the message with growing apprehension. 

There’s no text. Just an encrypted sender address and an image that his firewall decodes and rebuilds pixel by excruciating pixel. The red is unmistakable. By the time the image has finished downloading and Tim’s seated in his leather chair, trepidation has nestled firmly in his chest. 

It’s Jason. He’s been stripped of his signature leather jacket, but his armor and hood are in tact. Tim gets a vicious surge of pleasure at the thought of some small-time criminals activating the taser built into Jason’s body armor. 

He pinches the screen, scouring through the image to glean as much information as possible. Jason looks - for the most part - unharmed, and whilst Tim can only glean a partial of the cuffs, they look like the standard push pin mechanism. Double locks are always harder to wriggle out of (if one doesn’t intend to dislocate their thumb), but they’re nothing that Jason shouldn’t be able to handle once conscious. 

He assumes from the loll of the man’s head and the slump of his posture that he was out cold when the image was taken, and a quick decryption of the time stamp tells Tim it was taken approximately twenty minutes prior to the email. They were smart enough to erase the geo-coding data though, Tim notes ruefully, though he doubts they’re outside the larger Gotham county area. 

He flicks into his messaging app and fires off a text, before opening the second email. It’s lacking a subject; the text body simply states ‘Seven million unmarked bills’ in bold caps. 

Tim sighs and tilts back in his chair. At least they’re to the point. Maybe they appreciate Tim’s busy schedule, and don’t want to waste his time with inane threats. Why they’ve chosen to threaten him with _ Red Hood _ however, is beyond Tim. Since last he checked, the vigilante had staked the north of Gotham as his hunting grounds, and Tim’s lucky if he passes more than fifteen blocks being chauffeured from his penthouse on the Upper East Side to the towering beacon of Wayne Tower. 

Whatever their motive, they’ve clearly got it on good authority - or at least think they do - because Tim doubts they would have gone after Gotham’s most lethal vigilante without solid conviction that their blackmail would pay off. Regardless, he’s curious to see what Jason has to say about all these rumors. 

Tim checks his watch (an early birthday present from Bruce), fires off another snappy text, and then sets his inbox to ping directly to his personal cell. Then he slides the slim device neatly into the coat of his suit jacket as he smooths down his lapels, and strides back out to finish his merger. 

* * *

Jason rolls his neck back, popping the joints with a muted groan until it begins to tingle and he can feel the blood flow pick back up again. “How many times does a dude have to get kidnapped around here before he gets a discount?” 

He’s still wearing the hood, thank God, so his voice comes out tinny and modulated. They haven’t been able to unmask him yet, apparently. From the aching gouges under his jaw, it’s not for lack of trying. 

He blinks back nausea while he waits for his lenses to compensate, giving him a blue-tinted view of a warehouse backroom and a handful of armed thugs. Goody, goody; if they’re packing, then fair’s fair, right? 

“Who do I get to stamp my loyalty card?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” the nearest thug orders in a voice that’s amusingly gruff. 

Then there’s a gun in Jason’s visor, some small hand pistol that’s going to offer a glancing shot at best. He sighs and slumps in the metal chair, noting when it doesn’t rock back under his weight - bolted down, probably. 

“Is this going to take long? I’ve got prior engagements at six.” 

“Does this look like a joke to you?” 

Jason pauses. “Is that a serious question or are you looking for an honest answer?” 

The butt of the pistol slams across where Jason’s temple would be if it weren’t protected by a half-inch of reinforced metal alloy. It still rattles him around inside the helmet, his jaw smacking painfully against a protruding pivot point. He rolls with the motion and lifts his head back up to face the frustrated thug. 

“Wow, moving onto the hard kinks already. Thought we’d have to negotiate a safeword before we got to this level of foreplay.” 

The thug flushes a delightful shade of red, and cranks the gun again. Jason shifts to follow it, watching the man tremble, arm poised, before lowering it with a huff of irritation and spitting, “You’re gonna regret pissing us off, you stupid asshole” in what Jason assumes is an attempt at his very best intimidating voice. 

“Is that your best dirty talk?” 

“Shut it, you dumb bastard, or I’ll give you something to complain about.” 

“Titillating,” Jason replies, deadpan. 

It’s hard to turn his helmet over his shoulder enough to get a good look at the handcuffs, but Jason can feel the too-tight bite of steel against his bared wrists. Handcuffs, really? There’s a sucker born in Gotham every minute. 

“So,” Jason says as he rotates his gloved hand and digs his nail into the lowest knuckle of his thumb, “do I get to know why all this trouble over little old me?” 

“No,” one of the other thugs replies, digits biting into his biceps where his arms are folded over his chest. Jason nearly misses the flash of disappointment over the gun-toting thug’s features when he closes his mouth. 

“Can I guess?” Jason asks. 

The thug’s grip constricts around his arms. “_No._” 

“I’m gonna guess,” Jason tells him, and doesn’t imagine the groan that follows. He shifts his weight to hook his ankle up over his other knee, affecting a contemplative slouch. Or, as much of one as he can achieve with both his hands tied behind his back. “Is it a sick relative? Gambling debts?” 

“You have gambling debts?” the first thug says with a frown, and Jason pauses to glance over at him. 

“I- No, _ you _ have gambling debts. Don’t you- Is this your first time kidnapping someone? _ Christ, _ you lot are bad at this. Didn’t you read the _ Kidnapping for Dummies _ brochure that came with the small-time criminal starter pack?” 

“This isn’t how you’re supposed to act,” the first thug informs him, and Jason swivels to fix him with the most sarcastic glare he can muster through a half-inch of reinforced steel helmet. 

“Sorry, never was especially good at playing the victim. I’m usually the one at the other end of the gun; maybe it’s giving me stage fright for my first time. We can swap if you feel like switching it up?” 

“If I tape that stupid mouthpiece shut, will it keep you quiet?” 

“Unfortunately no, it’s a curse,” Jason simpers, and kicks out his heels, propping his heel up on the toe as he gives a dramatic groan into the ensuing silence. Loud enough to outlet the flash of pain that lights up his dislocated thumb. One of the thugs across the room jumps at the noise, and Jason can’t help but grin. “You guys mind if I do some light reading while we wait for my sugar daddy to pay my bill?” 

The thug who’s doing his very best impression of an impassive brick wall turns with dawning horror to bleat, “No-” 

“Hey Darci,” Jason says emphatically, and watches a microphone icon blink onto his visor screen. “Read back my last three texts from Sweetcheeks.” 

The visor bleats an acknowledging note, and then proceeds in an artificially dynamic tone, directly into his embedded earpiece, “Message from Sweetcheeks at three forty-seven p.m.: _ Are you serious R-N. On date night? _ End of message. Message from Sweetcheeks at three fifty-two p.m.: _ They want seven million for your return. I’m considering offering them fourteen to keep you. _ End of message. Message from Sweetcheeks at four oh-three p.m.: _ I’ve got to get back to my merger. Keep me posted. _ End of messages. Would you like to hear these messages again?” 

“No, send new message,” Jason instructs, and waits for a small text box to fill the bottom left corner of his screen. 

“Are you fucking _ texting _ in there?” the first thug says with a mixture of anger and awe. 

Jason ignores him in favor of dictating, “All your favorite restaurants were booked out. Thought this was more romantic than some shitty roses. Meet me in five? Send message.” 

“Send message to Sweetcheeks, please confirm?” Darci prompts robotically, and Jason does. The text box folds up on his screen and sails off with an artificial noise of rustling paper. 

The first thug is on him in seconds, gun digging harshly into Jason’s collarbone. “Did you just send out a text message? You’re not allowed to do that!” 

Jason snorts. “You wanna see what else this thing can do? Hey Darci: send my current location to Sweetcheeks.” 

The panic that lights up the first thug is overridden by the affirming ping as Darci drops a marker icon in the center of his visor to inform him that his beacon is currently broadcasting. The gun skirts up to Jason’s temple. 

“Stop that!” 

“Christ, you lot really are new at this,” Jason sneers, glancing between the uneasy horde of criminals. “Here’s a suggestion; if you put the guns down and walk out now, I’ll let you turn yourselves in. Save me the trouble of calling the cops to clean you up when you’re drooling onto the pavement outside.” 

“You’re goddamn crazy,” the one holding a gun to Jason’s skull bleats numbly. “Just batshit.” 

“Nah, Batshit’s the other guy; I’m Red Hood. Would’ve thought the helmet was a big tip off.” At their stunned apprehension, Jason pauses. “Red Hood, the vigilante. Did you… do you not know who I am?” 

The vaguely guilty, immensely withdrawn expressions that are filtered around the room of thugs has Jason’s jaw dropping. 

“How do you not know _ Red Hood?_” Jason demands, lodged between furious and incredulous. 

“It’s a big city!” one of the thugs pipes up defensively. “There’s like, twelve of you masked bastards. Would it kill you to hand out a pamphlet or something? I had enough trouble keeping track of the freakin’ Robins, let alone all you extras.” 

“Wait,” the first thug interrupts, the gun lowering in his confusion. “There’s more than one Robin?” 

“No, there’s just Robin, singular,” the thug clarifies sagaciously, “but like, he’s played by different actors or something.” 

“Kinda like James Bond,” Jason supplies as he shifts into a more comfortable sit. 

“Yeah! Just like James Bond.” 

“I thought there were restrictions on child actors? They can only work a few hours at a time. But Robin’s out all night. Isn’t that illegal or something?” 

The first thug blinks, before his features twist into a scowl. “What- no, they’re not _ actually _ actors! It’s just a persona! So Robin can be played by anyone.” 

“Anyone,” Jason affirms, and the thug nods in agreement. 

“Anyone can be Robin. He changes, see?” 

“I’m pretty sure Robin was a girl for a bit,” one interjects. 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Well, you said _ he_, which sort of implies-” 

“Jesus H. Christ, _ fine _ . Robin can be a they. The _ point _ is, there’s too many Robins and there’s too many vigilantes for us to remember Red Helmet or whatever your name is-” 

“Red Hood,” Jason corrects mildly, leaning his chin into his palm. 

“Red Hood, right, whatever. There’s too many of you guys, and you’re starting to double up on the names, which is just _ more _ confusing.” 

“Like Red Robin.” 

“_Exactly _ like Red Robin!” 

“Darci, are you recording this?” Jason mutters into his visor, to a confirming beep. 

“Red Hood, Red Robin, are you two drama queens going for a theme here?” 

“And what’s with it being Red _ Robin_, anyway?” 

“I thought they _ were _ Robin?” 

“No, there’s a new Robin. Red Robin is another guy.” 

“Are you sure?” Jason stirs, massaging his thumb where it rests on his knee to work the blood back into it. “He looks short enough to be Robin to me.” 

“I swear he used to be Robin though.” 

“Maybe you stop being Robin when you get to a certain height. It’s like a ‘you must be this tall to be a vigilante’ thing.” 

Jason jabs a finger at the thug, brows rising behind the metal of his helmet. “Now that’s a hot take. Tell me more.” 

The first thug opens his mouth, glances down at Jason’s finger, and pauses, gaze following the idle swing of the singular cuff around his singular wrist. Then lifts it back to his visor as Jason withdraws his hand. “You-” he starts. 

“About that,” Jason begins, and ducks when the thug swings forward to apprehend him. The knee he drives into the man’s diaphragm is perhaps a little overenthusiastic, but considering the guy has had a gun pointed at Jason for the better part of forty-five minutes, he figures they’re about square. 

The criminal slides down to his knees with a pained wheeze, and Jason pushes to his feet as the room comes to life, rolling the ache from his shoulders. 

“I did tell you guys to read the brochure,” Jason sympathizes, and leans down to slide the knife from his boot. He rolls his wrist through the air as he straightens, showing off the still-locked cuff. “You’d be amazed what doors you open when you can dislocate your thumb. Also, pro tip from a pro - frisk your victim next time?” He switches the knife to his other hand, letting their gazes shift to follow the glimmering silver arc. “You never know what surprises they’ve got in store for you.” 

* * *

“I think that’s a new personal best.” 

Tim spins to drink in the towering man, mustering a glare at his blood-stained nonchalance. The lens of his mask adjust to draw Jason’s figure from the shadows as he shifts to Tim’s side. 

“It’s almost like you didn’t need my help,” Tim points out dryly. 

Jason shrugs, the lights from a nearby rooftop billboard glinting off his helmet. “I had it under control.” 

“You clearly didn’t need to call me in for back up.” 

“Maybe I just wanted to show off to my boyfriend on date night. Is that really such a crime?” 

“I was in a merger,” Tim says stiffly, trying to summon resolve as Jason slips his palms over his hips. Tim can feel the heat of his hands through his suit. “I was _ this close _ to settling the Southeast Asian expansion.” 

“And did you?” 

Tim scowls at the cool, unfazed tone, but it’s hard to maintain his reputation for being a hard ass when Jason is pressed against him like this. “I might have.” 

“Well,” Jason considers, helmet tilting. “I’d say that calls for a celebration.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “_ You _ said all my favorite restaurants were booked, but I checked with the _ Hedera_, and they said they’ve got plenty of tables free.” 

Jason shifts his weight, somehow managing to plaster even more of himself along the seams of Tim’s suit. “Maybe I was after something more intimate. A dodgy warehouse in the back of Tricorner, for example?” 

“The first place we met, how romantic,” Tim retorts wryly. 

“I’m just the romantic type.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

Beneath the helmet, Tim gets the distinct impression Jason is smirking. In the distance, he can just make out the wail of approaching sirens. 

“You wrapped up your loose ends in there?” Tim asks, nodding towards the skylight. He can make out a few dark shadows that resemble prone bodies through the frosted glass. 

“Do I get a kiss if I did?” 

Tim tilts forward to peck his lips against the cheek of the helmet, and Jason groans. 

“That’s not fair. It doesn’t really count.” 

“It does when you pull me out of work early just to show off.” 

Jason cocks a hip, and he’s definitely grinning beneath the impassive visor. “Doesn’t count if you enjoyed it.” 

Tim lets himself smile, sliding his palms up the man's bared forearms. “Don’t make a habit of it.” 

“Me? Never.” 

Tim snorts, and shifts to the edge of the rooftop, fingers lacing with Jason’s as he trails. He casts his gaze up Elliot Avenue, studying the swill and churn of the night traffic below. 

“You know, babe, I’ve never been kidnapped as much as I have since dating you. You’re doing wonders for my sex appeal, but unfortunately, it’s starting to ruin my street cred.” 

“Tragic.” 

Tim turns at the soft hiss of Jason’s helmet disengaging, letting himself be pulled into a soft kiss by the hand that cups his jaw. “Careful,” Tim breathes when he pulls back, eyes sparkling. “People will talk. Never know what they’ll say next. Dangerous thing, rumors.” 

“If only the rumors were true,” Jason teases, and leans down to kiss him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block is kicking my ass, man. But I had a lot of fun writing something a bit more upbeat and comedic, it really helped to clear my head. A big thank you to the Prompter!


	17. To Drive A Hard Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen And Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Jason Todd 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Magic, Boats and Ships, Strangers to Friends, Knives, Threats 
> 
> **Words:** 3238 
> 
> **Summary:** The last thing Tim needs right now is a stranger amongst his crew when he’s already watching his back. But the theurgical traveller who seems unwaveringly keen to board his ship drives a very hard bargain.

“How much for the journey?” 

Tim pauses, turning to glance down the bulwark at the man on the docks below. “You can’t afford it,” he returns, and goes to move away. 

The man takes a stilted step forward over the seaworn boards, voice carrying up over the deck. “Are you headed East, to Canaan?” 

Tim’s jaw tightens at the name, the knot that has been toiling in his gut for several weeks now tugging a fraction tighter. “Yes,” he answers curtly. 

“Storms brewing from the West,” the man interjects quickly, stepping dangerously close to the fender. Tim watches the vessel shift against the dock, washed by the muted waves of the harbour. “Sailors out of Leptis reported them coming in from Gades. If you lower your headsail, you’ll shave a day, perhaps two, off your trip.” 

Tim pauses, gaze narrowing as he scrutinises the man. He’s a traveller, by the cut of his robe and the condition of the sack slung low across his back. He bears no weapons on his person though; no purse either. Tim’s not sure what to make of him, other than he’s an exceptionally unexceptional gentleman. It makes him immensely untrustworthy in Tim’s book. 

“Thank you for the speculation,” Tim says drily. “I’ll ensure the second mate is abreast of it. Good day.” 

“I’ll pay,” the man shouts up, with a hint more urgency this time. Tim watches apprehension flash through his gaze as he shuffles agitatedly on the wharf, worrying the strap of his pack absently. 

“We don’t need your patronage,” Tim replies. 

“Can you ask your captain?” the man tries, insistent. “I can pay handsomely. I’m sure he’d be eager to hear my offer.” 

Tim lets a thin smile curl his lips, and repeats crisply, “I don’t need your patronage.” 

The man blinks, reassesses him, and Tim can’t help but roll his eyes at the traveller’s surprise. He doesn’t cut the most imposing figure, he knows. Shrewd where others are outspoken, understated in his charm. It would be easy to mistake him for a deckhand, if one didn’t know any better. 

“This is your ship?” the traveller confirms, and Tim nods once, amused by his hesitancy. The shift in the cadence when he asks, “Do you have a theurgist?” tells Tim he’s finally being afforded the respect he’s due. 

“I don’t take theurgists onboard my vessels.” 

“Bad weather ahead,” the man says, searching for a weakness in Tim’s refusal. “You could do with a well-wisher on deck.” 

“We’re sailing away from the storms,” Tim retorts, and it’s a lie, wrapped in enough disinterest to hide his unease. Tim’s gotten good at lying in the last three months. “If we sail tonight, we should miss the brunt of them.” 

The man is annoyingly persistent. “They could come around, catch you unawares. You could use a weathered eye.” 

“And you’d be so kind as to bless our vessel?” Tim purrs scathingly. He knows these theurgist types, hired by more superstitious men than he to bend and twist the ties of fate to grant them safe travel. 

“For a fee," the man hedges, unflinching, “or passage.” 

“That sounds like self-fulfilling insurance to me,” Tim muses, propping an elbow up on the railing. “It would have to be safe passage if you were to make it to your destination.” 

The man doesn’t acknowledge the blistering quality to Tim’s tone, and Tim tilts his head in the ensuing silence. 

“What makes you so sure this vessel is not already under the suring hand of a theurgist?” 

The man’s gaze slides across the bulwark, assessing in a way that is far more practiced than a stowaway salesman could claim to be. It piques Tim’s interest as the man lifts those intelligent, cool eyes back to him. 

“I’d dismiss them if I were you.” 

Tim feels his lips part to reveal teeth. “And what would grant you that conviction?” 

“Your vessel has been cursed.” 

Tim blinks, swallows down the flutter of unease that wants to spill up through his lips in a demand for how and where. Instead he scrutinises the man, his unflinching stare, searching for a hint of bluff. Despite his best efforts, ice pools idly in his stomach at the suggestion. 

“Lying won’t serve you any better than bargaining aboard my ship.” 

“Who says I’m lying?” the man replies evenly. 

“I do. I’m the theurgist for this ship.” Tim pauses to let that confession sink through the man’s stubborn exterior. “And I say there’s not a single inch of this ship that could be cursed without my knowing it.” 

“You sound very sure.” 

“I’m a very good theurgist,” Tim retorts wryly, without pride. 

The man casts his gaze back down the dock, to where Tim’s crew are hoisting crates aboard, bellowing back and forth. “Have you checked your cargo?” 

Tim blinks. “Pardon me?” 

He turns back to fix Tim with a piercing stare. “It would be effortlessly easy for someone to curse you cargo, let your men carry it aboard your ship for you. Especially a jaded theurgist.” 

“Are you threatening me?” Tim asks softly, just a hint of breathless disbelief entering his tone. 

“Threatening would imply a future intention,” the man retorts. “I’m _ warning _ you, captain.” 

Tim gaze drags over his harsh blue gaze, electrified within the shadow of his hood. Despite his better judgement, Tim feels his lips tug into a smirk. 

“You have an interesting trading strategy there.” 

“I drive a hard bargain,” the man answers with the first small curl of a smile Tim’s seen on him. “But I’m happy to be at your service.” 

Tim tilts his head. “How _ lucky _ for me.” 

“How lucky for you,” the man agrees. 

* * *

Tim’s been pouring over navigational charts for the better part of three hours, and the usually soothing tilt and wash of the ship against the wharf is doing nothing to cure his foul mood. He’s exhausted most of the routes he’s familiar with, and he’s even discarded the nooks and crags of inlets that larger ships would run aground upon in favour of the broader tides. He’s no better off than when he had started this fools endeavour, and the knot of Tim’s stomach has only grown to nauseating proportions in the meanwhile. 

He can’t afford to spend another night in the harbour. Not if he intends to stay afoot of his pursuers. 

The Demon’s Head’s men will have to travel laveer to catch them; the last thing Tim wants is to confront them in the midst of a storm, three days off course and riled for a fight. His ship is smaller, faster, but he is forced to restock his galley more often than the larger naval vessels owned by the affluent Demon’s Head. Up to this point, their careful game of cat and mouse has worked to Tim’s favour; but the more ports he visits the more chance he has of catching an unfortunate eye, and Tim refuses to allow himself to fall back into the man’s clutches. 

His crew will almost be done packing the cargo by now; they’ll be awaiting Tim’s heading shortly. And his new shipmate will have finished settling in and finding his theurgical bearings. 

Call him paranoid, but Tim doesn’t particularly want a stranger poking around his ship. 

He pushes to his feet, stretching out his muscles and lifting his empty flagon from his workbench. He leans into the lull of the ship as a larger wave rolls beneath it, coaxed by the churning waters of a gathering storm. He’s long since grown accustomed to the push and pull of the water, the soothing song of the ocean beneath the fates’ hands. 

Tim picks his way through the midship to the galley, ducking beneath the doorway as he descends into the chatter of his men. The tables are filled with men crooked over bowls of what looks to be broth, gesturing back and forth in their groups. The only figure who sits alone from the rest of the crew is his newly boarded stranger, wrists crooked over a small tome as he drinks absently. 

Tim takes his time to salute his first mate, fill his flagon and steal a bowl of his own before he approaches the table and slides into the empty bench with nary a sound. The theurgist starts, shoulders tensing as he eyes Tim warily, a frown creasing his brow. 

“I’m not going to curse you,” Tim murmurs, adjusting his cutlery and setting aside his bread before he takes a sip. 

“We’ll see,” the man replies, but it’s not laced with the distrust Tim expects. The theurgist extends his empty palm. “Jason.” 

Tim takes it after a moment’s hesitation. “Tim.” 

“You have a lovely vessel,” he says curtly, and Tim’s lips twist in a wry smile. 

“Thank you,” 

“Pity it’s not heading to Canaan.” 

“Ah,” Tim purrs, and glances down to his broth as he tears off a strip of bread. “You’ve been talking to the crew.” 

“Overheard them, actually,” Jason answers, and closes his book to turn his full attention to his meal. 

“And yet you’re still aboard.” 

Jason shrugs. “You’re heading beyond this harbour. I’ll find my way in the next, or I’ll stay aboard, if you’ll have me.” 

“You have a lot of confidence in your usability,” Tim assesses, letting just the barest edge of cold chill his tone. 

Jason surveys him for a moment, discerning. “You have a very distrustful outlook on people.” 

“I’ve learnt to distrust people,” Tim retorts evenly. 

“That’s a hard way to approach the world.” 

It’s Tim’s turn to shrug. “You can always trust a distrustful man to be distrustful. There’s no surprise in disappointment if you assume the worst.” 

“No joy in surprise either,” Jason interjects. 

“You didn’t ask which port we were headed into,” Tim points out, and Jason puts down his spoon to cross his arms on the table. “Seems like a bit of a significant oversight for a traveller.” 

“Okay,” Jason concedes, “where are you headed?” 

“Where are you trying to go?” Tim counters without hesitation, holding his gaze over the flicker of candlelight. 

Jason studies his expression, before offering, “Gades.” 

It’s a common destination, along a popular trade route on the delta of the Great Sea, nestled in the coastline of Iberia. Plenty of ships sailing into the harbour, plenty more departing. Ample opportunity to skip over onto another vessel without attracting much unwanted attention. Even more opportunity to travel north into the Celtic territories of Gaul, disappear with a new name and a stranger’s face. 

It’s the answer Tim would have given. 

That’s why he doesn’t trust it for a second. 

“What business would you have there?” Tim asks mildly, and picks at his bread. 

Jason’s gaze is piercing, though Tim refuses to meet it, rationing out his food with methodical consideration. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours,” the man answers in a low, warning tone. It’s not a threat - not yet - but Tim knows he’s hit a sore point. 

Tim hums. “Everyone’s business aboard this ship is business of mine. I can’t afford for it not to be.” 

“And what about your business?” Jason interjects, lips twisting with displeasure. 

Tim gives him a placid smile. “What business?” 

Jason’s hand flashes out, seizing his wrist in a bruising grip as Tim barks in surprise and lurches back. His other arm moves just as quickly, divesting Tim of his sleeve. 

Tim snarls and twists out of his grip, breaking free to hastily shove down the article of clothing before any of the crew can glance over. He fiddles with the hem, careful to ensure it hides the gnarled flesh of his brand. 

Jason sets his elbows on the table, retrieving his spoon with an almost casual air. He pitches his tone low to avoid any eavesdropping crew when he says, “That’s a very pretty brand you’ve got there. Demon’s Head, right?” 

Tim imagines all the ways he could dispose of the man without arousing the barest suspicion. An unmarked, unmissed traveller tossed adrift in a storm, tripped over the taffrail and cast into the churning waters during a storm. 

When Jason glances up to meet his gaze, steady and sure and _ knowing _ \- like he can read every thought in Tim’s head - he feels a wash of guilt spill through his chest. He didn’t _ used _ to construct unfortunate demises for overattentive shipmates, didn’t have to resort to _ murder _ to ensure his and his crew’s safety. When did his own survival become so dire he’d plot a man’s demise over a meal with him? 

Jason props his chin up on the heel of his hand, surveying Tim coolly with that striking gaze. “You got any plans to get that revoked?” 

Tim swallows, and for a moment, he can feel the sear of Ra’s’ heat around his wrist, the pressure of his grip against Tim’s pulse. Can feel the pull against his skin, as if Ra’s is coaxing him across the sea; or he’s coaxing Ra’s, lighting his path like a beacon in a storm. He scratches at the brand as he stalls for an answer. 

“You know _ how _ to get it revoked?” Jason asks, and Tim eyes him. Jason snorts, picking at his broth. “Didn’t think so.” 

“Do _ you_?” Tim shoots back with a glower. 

Jason shrugs, and Tim hates how he can be so divorced from the issue. “I might. Depends if I’ve got safe passage through to Gades or not.” 

Tim’s lips twist in displeasure. “Let me guess: you want my quarters and a hefty sum for your generosity?” 

Jason shakes his head easily, to Tim’s surprise. “I’m perfectly content with a hammock in midship and enough broth to see me through until we get there.” 

That’s… surprisingly reasonable, for a man in his position. The Demon’s Head is a powerful man, with powerful enemies - and the ability to make enemies of Tim’s friends with his influence alone. Tim’s lost allies before to the promise of quick gold and Ra’s approval. 

But this man doesn’t strike him as one to be swayed by gilded metal. Tim’s found himself to be a pretty good judge of character, and despite all his challenges and taunts, the theurgist hasn’t outwardly lied to him yet. Hasn’t demonstrated that he’s anything other than steadfast and reliable. 

“But,” Jason warns, his tone streaked with something cold, something violent. “If I find myself paddling through the Aegean in a storm because someone assumed I’d be easy pickings, you won’t have only Ra’s’ curse to worry about.” 

Tim’s throat tightens, his gaze sharp as he assesses the man. “You know Ra’s?” 

“I’ve spent time in his court,” Jason hedges. 

“As a theurgist?” 

“I don’t see why that’s any of your concern.” 

“It is if I’m to ferry you to Gades on _ my _ ship.” 

Jason considers him. “Either I’m a spy sent to charm my way onto your ship, in which case there’s very little you can do to stop me at this point. Or I’m who I say I am, and you lose nothing having a theurgist on board to ease your passage through the storm.” 

Tim digests that morsel of information. “And if you were a spy?” 

The gleam in Jason’s eye is malicious and uncompromising. “Then your time’s up, little birdy.” 

Tim seizes his wrist, lurching upwards and over the table, his other hand flashing into his sleeve as Jason leers back, too late. 

His exhale fogs the polished glint of Tim’s blade went he cants it deeper into the flesh of his cheek, pinning Jason’s wrist to the table between them, both grips steady. Tim’s pulse rivals the rumble of thunder beyond the walls of his ship, but he doesn’t waver as he holds the theurgist’s eyes with a burning fury. Jason’s gaze is quieter, more analytical as it flashes over Tim’s coiled posture. Tim tries not to think about how quickly the man had seen through all his defences so far. 

“If you threaten me on my ship - theurgy or no - you won’t see Gades in this lifetime,” Tim warns, low and dark. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“I believe you,” Jason replies evenly, tilting his eye away from the blade, if only infinitesimally. 

“I’ll ask one more time: how do you know Ra’s?” Tim demands. 

“I spent time in his court,” Jason repeats evenly, holding his gaze with cool sincerity. Tim’s grip constricts on his wrist, and he glances down briefly. “There’s not much else to it, as far as you’re concerned, and I’d rather keep that part of my life to my own company. If you wouldn’t mind.” 

“And if I would mind.” 

Jason’s gaze flickers with irritation, before it’s contained. “I did some theurgy with him. Who would pass up an opportunity to learn from the immortal god-king?” 

_ Who indeed, _ Tim thinks wryly. He’s all too familiar with the prices Ra’s asks to trade for his knowledge, but… 

“You said _ with _ Ra’s.” 

Jason doesn’t flinch. “For Ra’s.” 

“You said with,” Tim presses inexorably, searching his impassive gaze. The man really does have nonchalance down to a practiced art. 

“Why does that matter to you?” 

“There’s a difference to working _ for _ Ra’s al Ghul and working _ with _ him.” 

“You’d know,” Jason retorts, far more discerning than he has any right to be, and Tim swallows once. Jason’s gaze flickers down to the table between them after a moment. “Like I said, I just want passage to Gades. If you can keep your past grievances with Ra’s to yourself, then I can keep mine. I don’t need to know what earnt you that brand.” 

“That’s a wise choice,” Tim says coldly, and Jason’s gaze lifts again, pinning him as much as Tim’s hand is pinning his wrist. 

“You _ may _ want, however,” Jason advises with an air of cloying calm, raising the fingers of his free hand to gently brush the knife away from his cheek, “to keep the military issue knife in your chambers. For safekeeping.” 

“I think it keeps me perfectly safe right where it is.” 

“Whatever you think is best, _ anakritis._” 

Tim’s lips twist in a wry smirk. “It would take one to know one.” His gaze flickers to the blade nestled in the man’s sleeve, flush to his forearm beneath the grip Tim has around it. 

Jason doesn’t even glance down. “It’s a memento from a life past,” he answers solemnly, though Tim can’t make heads or tails of the cryptic answer. “Don’t make the mistake of considering me a man of the law.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tim answers, but withdraws the blade back into his own sleeve. 

Jason exhales shakily, the only indicator to his discomfort as Tim settles back in his seat. His hands flex, curling once atop the table before he unfurls them. 

Tim lifts his spoon mildly, gesturing to Jason’s own half-eaten bowl. “Best finish your broth. You’ll be needing to earn it soon enough.” 

“I will, will I?” Jason mutters back with the crook of a brow, but stirs the watery soup nonetheless. 

“We’ll need cover from that _ storm. _It’s got a keen eye,” Tim says pointedly, and he can see the meaning is not lost on Jason. Then Tim smiles to himself. “A theurgist’s work is never done,” Tim advises sagely, and Jason snorts. 

“Finally agreed to hire me, did you?” 

Tim offers him a smile that’s all teeth. “What can I say? You drive a hard bargain.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love some ancient history. Add a dash of practical magic, and you have my attention. Throw in a man on the run and a former lawman, and we've got the start to an intriguing relationship. 
> 
> Big thank you to the Prompter for sparking one of my great interests that I sorely miss reading up on. I'll leave it up to them to decide what Tim did to earn Ra's interest, and what business Jason has running to Gades (or maybe he's running from something). <3
> 
> "Anakritis" is a Greek word meaning Inquisitor or Detective.


	18. Blood From A Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Roy Harper & Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Wally West, Jason Todd, Roy Harper, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Vampires, Vampire Hunters, Blood Drinking, Political Alliances, Immortals, Slavery, Childhood Trauma 
> 
> **Words:** 3896 
> 
> **Summary:** Tim hasn't visited his old coven for decades. When the Wayne Coven prepares to receive their newest ward, Tim can't shirk the summons to the most important gala of the century. Luckily, there's a few old faces to keep him company.

To say the Wayne Coven's gala was hedonistic would be to miss the whole point of this charade. Tim knew the coven better than most of the ambassadors here, and it was this insight which enlightened him to the fact that all of this opulence and extravagance was for the benefit of the creatures milling about in floor-length robes and elegant dresswear more so than the hosts themselves. It was luxurious because it was expected to be so, and amongst centuries old vampires, expectations and tradition were everything. 

This entire gala was a love letter to a tradition that had followed their species since the first had realised their own inability to conceive new life beyond Turning. Tim knew better than any how the Wayne Coven held to this particular tradition, how prized their fledglings and their wards were to their sire, Bruce Wayne. Their kind may be immortal, but hunters have always plagued them; the only means to win in a battle of attrition is to produce new life and new warm - or rather, cold - bodies. 

A handful of dignitaries mill about the room in their finer gowns, blood slave companions in tow. Tim can spot a few lower covenants, but most of these guests are sires and fledglings; nothing but the highest ranked of the covens to witness the presentation of the Al Ghul’s ward to the Wayne Coven. Anything less would be disrespectful. 

Tim’s only here for the sake of appearances himself. The Drake Coven had once stood as a formidable enemy, and then ally, of the Wayne Coven. Had gone so far as to migrate to the Americas when Bruce Wayne had set his eyes on the emerging city of Gotham. And Tim owes more loyalty to both covens than most, so he accepts an offered glass of pink champagne and joins the murmuring mill of his fellow vampires in the hall. 

It’s only a spare few minutes - a new record, Tim thinks dryly - before he arouses the attention of an old friend. “Tim! Tim!” 

The crowds part for the man, and Tim gives a polite smile when he turns to acknowledge him. The man doesn’t rush, but his stride is less the sure and languorous stroll of the immortals, and more the rippling energy of a fledgling on their first hunt. 

He embraces Tim when they meet, teeth flashing in his beaming grin. “It’s so good to see you.” 

“Dick,” Tim answers when the man holds him at arm's length. 

“It’s been ages,” Dick groans, and looks positively gleeful as he deposits his own champagne flute on a tray that immediately materialises within his reach. Dick surveys him, dragging his startling blue eyes over Tim’s form, assessing the spare few inches he’s gained over the past few centuries. “Hell, but you’ve grown. You were only to my chest last I saw you, little bird.” 

Amongst the Wayne Coven’s revered fledglings, Tim had always preferred Dick. The man was Bruce’s first fledgling, and carried none of the dignity that title had tried to thrust upon him. He and Tim had been close, for the brief decade before Tim had been presented to the Drake Coven. 

Tim smiles at the old nickname, glancing down at his shoes. “It’s been a while,” he agrees. 

“Too long,” Dick concurs, and then his brow pinches. “I meant to send a letter, or- they call now, don’t they? Message? I meant to see you after you left to go to live with the Drakes. I did mean to. Time always seems to slip by me.” 

Tim doesn’t mention how Dick seems to blink through centuries. He’s got over half a millenia on Tim, though he only looks to be several years his senior; Tim can hardly blame the man for missing a few meagre centuries. Even if Tim spent a good few decades of those centuries thinking about his older brother, hoping he’d see him again. 

Tim shrugs artfully. “I was a gift to the Drake Coven. It wasn’t your responsibility to worry after me. Bruce was kind enough to take me in in the first place; I couldn’t ask anything more of the Wayne Coven.” 

Tim doesn’t believe the sentiment of his words himself, but it would never do for him to be seen speaking ill of his sire. Even if the man had Turned him for his own purposes, against his will, he had still given Tim the gift of immortal life. And that sort of gift didn’t offer refunds. 

Grooming was not unusual amongst their kind. Taking a child into their fold for the purposes of wardship was common amongst the larger covens, whose largest gesture of a gift was bloodweight. Presenting the gift of a ward to a feuding coven during a time of truce was an assured way of securing their compliance, and an opportunity to solidify an armistice with a member aligned to both covens. 

Tim had resented Bruce, earlier on, for abducting him. For Turning him for the sake of a treaty, in a world that Tim was not apart of, and for reasons that reduced him to nothing more than a tool, a pawn between two warring factions. For holding him captive for a decade of his now-boundless life, confined to the social borders of the Wayne Coven while his upbringing and education had been seen to. All so he could be presented as a gift to the Drake Coven, cast aside, thrown away. 

Dick had been the only thing to keep Tim sane in those years. Had been the only one to insist upon his importance, his individuality, his personhood. Had snuck him up to the pointed spires of Wayne Manor in the last minutes of dusk, to dangle from the eaves and watch the pink-and-mauve streaks of the sun paint the horizon. Had reminded him that there was fragility in their permeability. Had reminded him that even suns set, day to day. It was all a matter of perspective, really. 

Some years, Tim feels like he owes Dick his life more than he ever did Bruce. 

Dick’s lips twist in a grimace, but he doesn’t press the issue, squeezing the bones of Tim’s shoulder and smiling fondly. “I’ve missed you, little bird.” 

Tim tilts his head towards the man trailing them, waiting with his hands folded in the small of his back as the two vampires embrace. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

That fond smile takes on a hint of adoration as Dick beckons the man closer. Tim’s gaze flickers over the vibrant orange of his tousled locks, the draping swathes of red silks cinched across his hips and collarbone, and the flash of discomforting silver at his throat. Tim doesn’t offer the man his hand; he knows a blood slave when he sees one, and the constellation of freckles across his pale skin denotes exactly how highly prized, how exquisite this particular slave is. He’d expect nothing less for Dick, a first fledgling, the prodigal son of the Wayne Coven. 

“Wally, this is Tim,” Dick introduces, and Tim smiles at the man’s blatant disregard for custom. Most slaves are to be seen and not heard from, to provide a pleasing decoration draped over a vampire’s arm, and to offer a soft expanse of neck whenever their master is in need of nourishment. But it’s far from Dick’s nature to bow to propriety. 

Wally inclines his head, winding an arm around Dick’s bicep as he nestles closer to the man. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Tim’s gaze is drawn to the spiderwork of blue in the crooks of his elbows, and the thud of a strong pulse against the tendons of his pale throat. He hasn’t taken a blood slave of his own yet, hasn’t had the need to before. His needs were always provided for by the Wayne and then the Drake Covens; he did not want for his own personal vassal. But seeing the way Wally folds into the line of Dick's body like he could impart himself into his bloodstream by contact alone stirs an inkling of regret in Tim’s gut. 

As if reading his mind, Dick casts a knowing eye on him and says, “You’ll be needing to take a companion soon, won’t you, Tim? Being sire and all now.” 

Tim jolts at the reminder. The Drake Coven has been the target of numerous attacks over the past few decades, their numbers dwindling until even their reigning matriarch, their dam Janet, had fallen victim to a hunter’s stake. It’s part of the reason Tim had returned to Gotham, to secure safety in the shadow of one of America’s most influential covens, and perhaps seek favour from his old sire. With no other surviving members, he supposes that makes him a sire too, though Tim’s never wanted a coven of his own. 

Dick snorts at his expression, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too hard about it, Timbers. Just enjoy the evening. Mingle a bit. It won’t kill you.” 

“I’ll be sure to enjoy myself,” Tim assures him, and Dick grins as he withdraws. 

Then he presses a sharp nip to the skin of Wally’s shoulder, pulling him away to emphatically greet the Gordon Coven’s dam. Tim sips his champagne and slips back into the crowd, striking up small talk and polite conversation with a handful of vampires who ask after the Drake Coven. By the time Tim manages to recede onto the outskirts of the tightly knit social circles, Wayne Manor is alive with chatters of the Al Ghul Coven’s arrival. 

He’s heard rumour of the Al Ghuls’ methods; their practice of rearing human children from the crib, honing their skills and their eagerness to serve the coven long before they’re ever promised a Turning, is both revered and rebuked among the gathered covens. Though Tim sincerely doubts any of them would be so bold as to voice their disapproval within earshot of any Al Ghuls themselves, not while the oldest living vampire remains their sire. With very few exceptions, most of the bloodlines represented here can be traced back to Ra’s Al Ghul’s fledglings - including Bruce Wayne himself. 

Tim bows neatly when their honoured guest reveals herself, striding forward with formidable purpose. Ra’s’ tenth fledgling, and his indisputed favourite, Talia, is a creature of intense beauty and lethal grace. If Tim’s not mistaken, the ward she is presenting to the Wayne Coven is her first fledgling; Tim can’t help but wonder exactly what Ra’s had to trade to convince Talia to hand her own blood over to another. 

The boy himself is young - as young as Tim was when he was Turned by Bruce - with stern features that reflect the same ethnicity as his dam. He carries himself with rigorous purpose, mature beyond what his youthful appearance would suggest. He looks the part of an Al Ghul ward, a gift of momentous importance to the Wayne Coven. 

Tim’s throat feels tight, and he drags his gaze away from the stern-faced child, skirting the edges of the crowd before Bruce can arrive and spot him. Considers whether he’ll be able to find a secluded alcove to hide away from prying eyes. A Manor this large is sure to offer some semblance of privacy. 

Tim’s just spotted the imposing form of Bruce making his way through the gathered dignitaries when he stumbles upon a neat recess. It’s, unfortunately, occupied. 

Two men are draped across a pair of convenient armchairs on the outskirts of the conversation, looking very much like they would rather be anywhere else. Tim recognises the taller of the pair immediately. 

Jason, Bruce’s second fledgling. Tim hadn’t grown especially close to the man while he’d been the Wayne Coven’s ward. Jason had been going through what could kindly be referred to as his rebellious phase, which, amongst other socially heinous crimes, had culminated him in challenging Bruce for sirehood. He’d lost the ensuing fight by a significant margin, and distanced himself from the coven for nearly a whole decade. It was only in recent months that Tim had heard tell of his exploits back in Gotham; he supposes that this time the rumours surrounding Jason had been true. 

His gaze flits over the insouciant man as he stumbles to a halt, taking in the new dash of white in his forelocks. He’s barely aged in the decade past, but he looks _ huge _ compared to Tim’s memory, especially sprawled back in his seat, knees hitched open. His blue eyes are laced with mirth as he leans over to make a comment to his companion, eyes trailing Bruce through the crowd. The other man laughs, drawing Tim’s attention to him. 

Another redhead, this time nestled into the armchair next to the vampire. A blood slave, going by his hair, and his proximity to a fledgling. There’s certainly no other member of the coven whom Jason would allow to flank him. 

Tim squares his shoulders, steels himself, and approaches the larger man with single-minded focus, offering a hand. 

“Master Jason. A privilege to see you again.” 

That pair of sharp blue eyes shifts to lacerate Tim’s skin, making him falter in his steady approach. There’s a disregard to them, but an intensity beneath the boredom that cannot be quelled. 

“That’s close enough, I think,” the redhead drawls, layered with heavy threat. Tim stills with a jolt of surprise, dragging his gaze over the man a second time. 

He’s certainly not dressed like any blood slave Tim’s ever seen in higher circles, though attire does vary to the owner’s discretion. This one is decidedly… rugged, compared to the usual silks and satins most elite blood slaves are draped in. In the place of the customary silver at his throat is a high, stiff leather vest collar. His clothing is equally robust, all the way down to the black pants and leather boots. He’s wearing the customary red insignia of the Wayne Coven, although only his shoulders are bared. Tim can see the thrum of blue veins in the crooks of his elbows, and whilst he’s certainly not as _ pretty _ as Wally had been, he definitely shares the heritage of a well-to-do blood slave. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Tim stutters, gaze flickering to Jason and back to the redhead’s amused smirk. “I don't recall your name.” 

“You wouldn’t,” the man answers, and Tim frowns at his lazy drawl. As a fledgling’s blood slave, he may outrank Tim when it comes to coven hierarchy, but given that Tim’s technically sire of his coven now, that’s due to change. 

Any blood slave who took that tone with a sire, or even just a covenant of a guest coven, would find themselves shortly dispensed with. Highly bred or not. It’s only by merit of the man being a fledgling’s blood slave, and _ Jason’s _ slave, no less, that forces Tim to swallow his retort down. 

“Careful,” Jason interjects, but the redhead’s gaze doesn’t lift from Tim, analytical in its drag. Tim can’t help but feel as if it lingers on his throat, his wrists, his chest, picking at his weaknesses. “Don’t you know he’s the Drake sire now?” 

The man snorts, loud and obnoxious enough to draw some wayward glances. “I don’t care if he’s the Queen of England. I’m not going to kiss his ass.” 

Jason kicks his boots up onto a nearby footstool, rolling his eyes. “You’re gonna get my ass schooled by Bruce if you keep talking to sires like that.” 

“You’re a fledgling,” the redhead points out. “That basically gives me immunity to do whatever the hell I like, by association.” 

“Not my blood slave though,” Jason points out smugly, and the redhead snorts. Tim frowns at their amicability, the ease they share. 

“Yeah, but if I staked one of you, I’m sure they’d still hang _ you _ for it,” the redhead replies sweetly, and realisation strikes through Tim. 

“You’re a hunter,” he says dumbfoundedly. He’s never heard of a vampire taking a hunter for a companion before, or a blood slave. Not without exceptional force anyway. Hunters very rarely cross the line into interacting with their kind, let alone associating with them. 

Those hazel eyes are lethally amused. “You seriously thought I’d spread my legs and bare my throat for a shithead like him?” the man retorts, jerking his head towards Jason, who barks a protest. 

“I’ll have you know I am a _ treat,_” Jason purrs. “And a fledgling of the _ Wayne _ Coven to boot.” 

“Yeah, but he’s a sire,” the redhead replies with an absent gesture in Tim’s direction. “Why wouldn’t I just work for him? Full immunity then.” 

“I could do with a hunter in my ranks,” Tim agrees mildly, and the redhead gives him a smile that is not entirely friendly. “Recent misfortunes certainly call for it.” 

“So they weren’t lying?” Jason enquires with an air of genuine curiosity. “The Drake Coven is down to one?” 

“Awfully lonely,” the redhead purrs, and Tim’s gaze is drawn by the malicious edge to his tone as he folds his arms behind his head. “Not a lot of safety in those numbers. Makes you a target for hunters.” 

“You’d know,” Tim retorts, and the redhead grins, slowly. 

“I’d know,” he answers. He unfolds his ankles with a lengthy groan, leaning forward to prop his elbows up on his knees and draw Tim into his confidence. He’s so _ fidgety. _ It irks Tim immensely. “It’s how I’d pick you off; whittle your population down to a handful and take you out while you were travelling. When your guard’s at its lowest.” 

His eyes twinkle with mischief, but Tim can’t completely divorce himself from the flutter of unease in his gut. 

“His meaning _ being,_” Jason interjects with a warning tone, and Roy’s gaze shifts off Tim, “it’s not safe for you alone out there, in big bad Gotham.” 

Tim can’t help but smile, short and sharp. “I think I can handle Gotham myself.” 

“Can you?” Jason returns, and Tim’s gaze narrows. This is not how he foresaw their conversation going. “Can’t be easy with no one to watch your back.” 

“Are you suggesting I collect some fledglings?” Tim asks with dry derision, the mere thought of introducing another into this life making his blood curdle. 

“Have you considered rejoining the Wayne Coven?” Jason asks mildly. 

“I thought your stance on the coven was exceptionally clear.” 

Jason shrugs. “It’s not all bad. Like Roy says, safety in numbers is definitely a positive. From experience, I’ll take not dying on a hunter’s stake any day of the week.” 

“From experience?” Tim repeats, but all Jason offers him in return is a slow, knowing stretch of smile. He shifts tack; he doesn’t know why Jason’s being so forthcoming now, considering how he’s treated Tim in the past. “You don’t remember me.” 

“I remember you. You were Bruce’s ward. The mini-Bruce. I didn’t like you back then.” 

“But you like me now?” 

Jason shrugs. “Things change. Now you’re not a cute little bartering chip.” Tim can’t help but scowl at the reminder. Jason takes it in stride. “Really came into your own though. Sure showed those elite bastards, outliving them like this. Who’s laughing now?” 

“You have a very morbid outlook.” 

“We’re vampires. Morbid is sort of our schtick.” 

“You say that like a human. Like this was forced on us.” 

“Wasn’t it?” Jason asks, and Tim snaps his jaw shut. The intensity of those blue eyes is arresting. “I may not have been Turned as a gift to another coven, but I certainly didn’t ask for all this when Bruce found me. We’re not like Dick, you and I. I didn’t ask to become a vampire, or to be Bruce’s fledgling. And I got sick of everyone expecting me to be the Golden Boy. I’m sure you’re pretty tired of expectations too.” 

Tim doesn’t affirm that assumption, though he sorely wants to. 

“It’s like this business with the Drake Coven kicking the bucket. Everyone expects you to be a sire, to Turn some fledglings, rejuvenate the coven - just like Bruce would. Just like Dick would, in your shoes. But we’re not Bruce. So why not say to hell with everyone’s expectations, and rejoin the Wayne Coven? Throw a figurative wrench in their plans.” 

“That feels like taking the easy way out.” It doesn’t feel _ wrong, _ though. 

Jason barks a laugh and arches a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Nothing is easy with Bruce. But it would mean you’d be a fledgling. You could take a blood slave, swim in riches, live in infamy.” 

“Infamy?” Tim repeats with a snort. 

Jason’s grin is wicked and thrilling. “Is there any other way to live?” 

“You don’t strike me as particularly infamous, slumming it up at Bruce’s galas,” Tim drawls, gesturing to the extravagance. 

Jason’s timbre drops to a sultry purr when he replies, “You should see what I get up to after sunrise.” 

Tim would be lying if he said that didn’t ignite something deep and intrigued in his core. Jason’s lips twitch, almost like he can hear the cacophony of Tim’s pulse beneath the veneer of his flesh. Maybe he could, if Tim’s heart were still beating. 

As it is, he swallows, more a habit nowadays than a reflex, and Jason’s grin grows. 

“I could take you out sometime, if you’d like?” he entreats in a purr, shifting his weight forward onto his knees, until he’s braced like he could leap on Tim in an instant. It’s predatory, and it makes the instinct embedded under Tim’s skin thrum in response. “Show you my side of Gotham.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” Tim finds himself murmuring, but it sounds quiet, far away. Like he can’t hear around the overwhelming presence of the older vampire, sucking down his attention greedily. “What if something were to happen?” 

Jason rolls one broad shoulder, and Tim’s gaze follows the motion with rapture. “Always makes things a bit more interesting, doesn’t it? Besides, what else is there to keep two immortal creatures alive other than the promise of a reckless death?” 

“Christ,” Roy groans, and Jason hisses at the taste of the name on his tongue. Tim concurs, snapping from his enthralment. The redhead shifts to his feet with a roll of his eyes. “You two are disgustingly morbid. Made for each other, really. But I’m gonna give you two some privacy to write depressing poetry or share your super secret vampire journals or whatever it is you melancholy types do for kicks. Maybe I’ll go earn that ridiculous security paycheck old man Wayne’s paying me.” 

“Hey,” Jason protests. “You’re _ my _ man first and foremost. Bruce doesn’t get to muscle in on _ my _ hunter.” 

Roy blows him a kiss as he backtracks towards the main room. “Then maybe you should pay me better, baby. Have fun. I’ll find you later.” 

Tim watches him disappear into the crowd with a casual gait, and starts when Jason materialises silently beside him, on his feet. He shoves his hands into his pockets and grins down at Tim, fangs a spare few inches from his cheekbone. Tim can’t help but swallow at the sight of them, entranced by those gleaming blue eyes. “So what do you say, Mister Drake?” he teases. “Want to grab a bite to eat?” 

Tim lets his own lips curl into a wry smile, and doesn’t miss when Jason inhales sharply at the sight. “Sure, I’ve got time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got unbelievably invested in the worldbuilding for this prompt, so please feel free to ask questions below if I didn't flesh anything out fully. 
> 
> As a thumb rule, Vampires aren't technically fully immortal, they just age at a rate of 50:1 years, so it'd take them forever to reach old age. And for the Batfam:  
Bruce was Turned at 7 years old in 400, making him 1600 years old and appearing 39.  
Dick was Turned at 9 years old in 1150, making him 850 and appearing 26.  
Jason was Turned at 12 years old in 1450, making him 550 and appearing 23.  
Tim was Turned at 13 years old in 1700, making him 350 and appearing 19.  
Damian was Turned at 10 years old in the modern day, making him a new fledgling.  
Talia was Turned at 4 years old in 600, making her 1400 and appearing 32.  
Ra's was Turned at 4 years old in 3100BC, making him 5100 and appearing 106. 
> 
> Enormous thank you to the Prompter for giving me the opportunity to play around with a fun world of millennia old vampire politics! Hopefully one that I can revisit <3


	19. Reboot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen and Up Audiences 
> 
> **Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply **
> 
> **Category:** M/M 
> 
> **Relationship:** Tim Drake/Jason Todd 
> 
> **Characters:** Jason Todd, Tim Drake 
> 
> **Additional Tags:** Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Office, Interviews, Assassination Attempt(s) 
> 
> **Words:** 3483 
> 
> **Summary:** Jason's a necromancer, of sorts. Not that he has any clue _how_ his necromancy works. But it'd seemed to work perfectly fine fixing broken phones in a small-time mall kiosk. Up until he'd caught the attention of eccentric CEO Timothy Drake-Wayne.

Jason has no idea how he got this job. 

One minute he’s fixing people’s broken appliances, dealing with screaming entitled brats sobbing over their ‘outdated’ cells, and just generally enjoying the horrors of working in a mall kiosk - and the next he’s standing in the waiting room in front of Wayne Enterprises CEO’s office. He can’t sit still, pacing up and down the length of the polished reflective glass, heels scuffing on the plush carpet. 

He must look absolutely manic, he’s sure. He just can’t _ stop. _ His nerves are fizzling beneath his skin, threatening to explode if he stands still for even a second. 

The receptionist at the other end of the long waiting area has cast him several pointed looks by now, but her latest chilling scowl makes Jason’s knees lock up. He’s brought to a stuttering halt, sheepish and cowed as he curls and unfurls his hands in the pockets of his slacks. 

Jason looks gaunt in the shimmering glass, shoulders hunched to make his obnoxiously large form somehow small and fragile. He studies the features of his reflection, the tight lines of anxiety, the mess of his hair where he’s been running his hands through it obsessively. 

He _ has _ to make a good impression. This is Wayne Enterprises, for Christ’s sake. This is the best damn job offer Jason’s ever gotten, or ever will get, probably. 

Jason’s still not entirely sure _ how _ he got this job. But it’s just another mystery to add to the Bermuda Triangle of Jason’s entire life; he figures he should be used to this sort of thing by now. 

Waking up in his grave with some startling potent powers really should have clued him in to the fact that his life has been completely off the rails for a _ long _time by this point. Jason just needs to start embracing it. 

Jason straightens his nicest leather jacket, feeling abysmally underdressed amongst the crisp, minimalist furniture. His potential boss clearly has a preference for neat and austere things, and Jason feels completely out of place amongst all the immaculate trimmings. Nonetheless, he straightens out his shoulders and clears his throat, trying to affect a confidence he doesn’t feel. 

He feels giddy. Who is he _ kidding _ pretending he knows what the hell he’s doing here? 

“Hi, I’m Jason, I’m a necromancer,” he tells his reflection, and grimaces. 

Yeah, that’s going to go down well. 

He doesn’t even know how the hell his powers work, _ why _ they work. It’s not like he was born with them. He was sort of… reborn with them. Either way, it doesn’t mean he has any greater insight into what they hell they _ do. _

He’s more of a necromancer by association, if anything. Stand close enough to anything, and it goes haywire around him. He’s got an entire garden of resurrected flowers to prove it. That’s why he was working at that damn kiosk in the first place; one touch of a device and presto! Completely fixed! 

And now, somehow, he’s got a job as the new tech maintenance expert at _ the _ Wayne Enterprises. Jason doesn’t have any qualifications. Jason doesn’t even have a GED. Dying has a habit of rearranging one’s priorities like that; one foul slip and suddenly a high school diploma looks like another unnecessary bit of paper. 

Someone’s going to call him out on his bullshit. Someone’s going to work out that Jason has _ no idea _ what he’s talking about, and then he’ll be done for. Jason swallows down the suddenly nauseating image of trials and Salem. He’s about to head into a room full of people who make a living doing this shit, and lie to their damn faces. Witch hunt indeed. 

He should save them - save _ himself _ \- the trouble. He should smile and nod and then politely decline their offer for this once-in-a-lifetime job that he only got because he fixed Timothy Drake-Wayne’s phone when no one else could. 

The thing had been drowned, shattered, and fried, as far as Jason could tell. The only reason the CEO of Wayne Enterprises had even visited his kiosk was because he ‘desperately needed the data on the SD card’ and ‘every other tech expert in a hundred mile radius’ hadn’t been able to help him. 

So Jason had shrugged and said he’d take a look, that it couldn’t hurt. 

When Timothy had handed over the cell, Jason had stared down at it in numb shock and mild horror. The phone looked like it’d taken a bullet, the screen shattered in a spiderweb of glass fragments. Even past the algae-ridden stench of waterlogged electronics (and what, had he gone for an impromptu swim in Gotham Harbor?), Jason could smell the pungent aroma of fried circuitry. 

“Did you get _ tased?_” he had muttered before he could remember he was a customer service rep, and that probably wasn’t a polite question. 

Timothy had laughed, high and thin, and ignored the question entirely to ask, “Can you fix it?” 

Jason’s face had scrunched, but their kiosk had a try-anything-and-everything policy, so Jason had taken his details and tucked the phone into the back of the shop. Told the man to come back in an hour for the final verdict. 

Then Jason had shucked his leather gloves, dropped onto his stool in the back, and pressed a single finger to the ruptured cell. It’d sparked, the screen lighting up beneath the veneer of shattered glass. Which was a good thing, really. It meant Jason was probably going to get a tip, if this guy was a half-decent Upper East Side rich boy. 

It’d taken forty minutes for the screen and the circuitry to mend themselves, during which time Jason had gotten through a solid three chapters of his current novel, his unoccupied palm pressed flush to the device. 

When it had bleated out a soft, almost grateful note to signal that it had booted again, Jason pried him palm off and frowned down at the screensaver of a thirty-year-old man that was definitely not Timothy Drake-Wayne hugging his young daughter. The device was code locked, so Jason hadn’t been able to delve any further into the mystery, and the question of why Timothy had the cell of a man that looked like he’d been in the fighting rings in his younger days and not the gold-plated streets of Upper Gotham was beyond Jason. 

Timothy had been nothing short of awed. 

“You fixed it,” was the first thing that had fallen from his slack mouth when he’d set the device on the counter. 

Jason had shrugged. “Everything should be in order.” 

“It was,” Timothy had murmured, and paused to glance up at him where Jason stood, fidgeting, “shattered. Trashed. _ Drowned. _ How in the hell did you get it to boot?” 

He should have left it. Pretended there was nothing he could have done. Handed back the stupid device with a wince and an apologetic smile and called it a day. “I replaced the screen,” Jason lied. “Fiddled with some of the circuitry until I got a spark. No biggie.” 

“This is… thank you,” Timothy had said, that awed quality hushing his tone. “I owe you big time. This is incredible.” 

And then he’d said the one thing Jason had never thought he’d ever hear from Wayne Enterprises CEO: 

“Do you want to work for me?” 

Now he’s standing on carpet that costs more than his rent, scuffing his shoes as he waits for Timothy to call him into his office. For him to offer Jason a job that he is not qualified for and has no clue how to do. 

Even if he _ does _ just keep doing what he’s always done, how is he supposed to explain being able to resurrect decommissioned tech? Jobs like this want reports, and debriefs, and statistics. Jobs like this want Jason to explain why and how and when can he do it again? 

Jason doesn’t have the answers to any of those questions. Jason doesn’t even know what causes it, other than just _ him. _

He tries not to hyperventilate. Tries to breathe deep, in through his nose and out through his mouth as he stares at his reflection. 

“You’re going to be fine,” he whispers to himself. “It’s just a misunderstanding. You can explain that, and then we’ll go home. Any they’ll be none the wiser.” 

The huge mahogany door cracks open with the barest whisper, making Jason jump a foot in the air, and Timothy Drake-Wayne steps out. A beaming smile lights up his eyes. 

“Jason,” he greets, crossing the floor to shake his hand. Jason prays his palm isn’t as sweaty as it feels. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Please, step into my office.” 

Jason’s knees feel like they’re knocking, threatening to collapse as he shrugs around Timothy and waits inside the door to his office as the man follows. It’s a huge room, big enough to fit a whole boardroom table and a monolithic slab of a desk that Timothy heads towards. 

“Thank you, sir,” Jason breathes, and clears his throat, following him to the cushioned pair of chairs on one side of the wood. He takes the one on the left. “I really appreciate this opportunity, Mr Way-” 

“Tim,” Timothy interjects, and Jason feels lightheaded beneath that warm gaze. “We know each other well enough to go by first names, I think?” 

Jason nods, but it feels a bit robotic. 

Tim smiles, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he slides into his huge chair. It just makes him all the more imposing, from where Jason’s sitting. “Thank you again for fixing that phone for me. You saved me a lifetime of ‘I told you so’s’.” 

Jason tries to match his mirth, but it comes out wobbly. “Don’t mention it.” 

Tim holds the smile for a moment longer, as if he’s trying to work out if Jason’s really as nervous as he appears. “You don’t have to be humble,” he coaxes. “Your skills speak for themselves. You don’t have to prove yourself in this interview; it’s more a formality than anything.” 

Jason swallows past the lump in his throat, but apparently his grimace isn’t convincing enough. 

“I’m fully intending to give you the job,” Tim tells him encouragingly. “If you’re eager to take it, that is. I think you could be a great asset to Wayne Enterprises, and a great fit here. It’s a great place to work. We have a lot of internal programs to support employee well-being, and we offer a lot of sponsorship opportunities for employees seeking to upskill.” 

He laughs, a little strained himself, and Jason wonders if CEOs ever get nervous like the rest of them. 

“I sound like I’m trying to sell you the role,” he admits with a conspiratorial grin, and gestures to Jason, “when I should just be letting you tell me about yourself. My head of Telecommunications said you seemed really intrigued with some of the databanks on your tour. Something catch your attention?” 

Jason vaguely remembers nodding attentively at the bank of yellow and green and red lights, set into the sleek black electronics in the WE tech department. Scrubbing his chin thoughtfully to mask his panic as the important-looking man had prattled on about microprocessors and repositories. He must have been staring intently enough for the man to notice enough to _ comment _ on it. 

He tries to offer a sheepish smile. “You know how it is,” he says lamely, and withers beneath Tim’s eager, encouraging smile. Jason defaults to flattery. “You’ve got a great system here. Not every day you get to see tech this… advanced. I’m really keen to see all of it.” 

“That’s very courteous of you,” Tim replies sincerely. “I’m glad you found your bearings so quickly.” 

Jason’s stomach plummets somewhere down into his shoes. 

“It might take you a little longer to acclimatise, but you seem to be a natural. I’m thinking we’ll get you set up under our Executive Telecommunications Officer, have you shadow him for a few weeks until you know the system back to front. Then we’ll give you your own team to work with.” 

Jason feels like he can’t draw in enough air. The _ last _ thing he needs is to be under the direct supervision of an actual expert on all this stuff. Or worse, an _ entire team _ of people who will know instantly that Jason’s playing Gotham’s most impressive game of poker. 

Tim’s still rambling excitedly, wheeling a hand through the air as he continues, “I’m sure you’ll have some ideas of your own on how we can improve our security and our hardware. I’ll make sure you’re given access to our floor of developers; get you attacking the root of WE’s tech advancement. A system-wide overhaul might be in order, once you’ve settled in, but I’m sure that in your capable hands-” 

Jason can’t take it anymore. His pulse feels like it’s scorching in his throat, strangling him from the inside out. 

“I’m- I- _ I don’t know what I’m doing,_” Jason blurts out, and braces for the reprimand. 

Tim blinks at him, and then his features split into a calming smile. “That’s okay, you don’t have to find your place right away. Sometimes it can take a while to settle into a new workplace, and-” 

“No,” Jason interrupts. “I mean, I don’t know how I fixed your phone.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I don’t know anything about server gateways and data packets and planned obsolescence or whatever the hell they were saying earlier. _ I don’t know what I’m doing here. _ I’m not the guy you want for this job.” 

“I don’t understand,” Tim admits. 

Jason sighs. “I don’t get tech stuff. I don’t even know how I fixed your phone. I just… touch things, and then they come back to life, fix themselves, whatever.” 

Tim opens his mouth, a question knotted into his brow, and Jason rolls his eyes. 

“Flowers, phones, laptops, roadkill, cracked glass,” Jason rattles off before he can ask. “You name it, I can probably resurrect it. But I have _ no idea _ how I’m doing it. I can’t do it on command. It’s just… I touch things, and one moment they were dead and the next they’re alive. I can’t control it.” 

Tim stares at him for a long minute. Long enough that Jason feels like he could have turned and just let himself out of the building by now. Saved himself having to sit through this silent trial at the hands of one of the greatest minds of their generation. Then Tim says, contemplative and curious, “Does it work on people?” 

Jason winces. “I, uh, I don’t know. I’ve sort of been avoiding cemeteries since-” 

_ Since I crawled out of my own grave. _

“I don’t know,” Jason settles on, lips a terse line. 

“You’ve never tried it?” Tim presses, and Jason frowns. 

“I- No, how could I?” 

“You’ve never touched someone who was sick, or terminally ill, or fatally wounded?” 

Jason blinks, shaking his head. “No, when would I have ever-?” 

“Never?” Tim insists. 

“I don’t know! I haven’t tried!” Jason snaps, and runs a hand through his hair. “I just- I don’t know how or why any of this works, it just _ does, _okay?” 

“Do you think you could keep me alive?” 

Jason head jerks up, stunned. “Excuse me?” 

“I said,” Tim says, with slow emphasis. “Do you think you could keep me alive?” 

“Why would I need to do that?” Jason demands with a frown. 

“Because I’ve had a number of attempts made on my life recently.” At Jason’s horrified expression, Tim shrugs. “Comes with the territory. People don’t like certain mergers, competitors want an easier way into the market. I’m used to it by now. But some of them are getting pretty determined. I’ve been keeping it quiet, keeping the press off the scent - God, they’d have a field day if I kicked it - but I don’t know how long until my luck runs out.” 

“Luck,” Jason repeats dumbly, but Tim doesn’t hear him. 

“I’ve gone through three heads of security for too-close calls. If you can do what I think you can do, you won’t even need to worry about stepping in front of a bullet for me.” 

“And what if you’re wrong, and I can’t?” 

Tim arches a shoulder, lips twisting in dark mirth. “Then I’m in the same position I’m already in,” he points out drily. He leans back in his chair, that malignancy disappearing in a flash. “I wouldn’t worry about it so much, if I were you. From your perspective, it’s a win-win. Either I live, and you get a six figure salary and your own fleet of vehicles to fawn over, or I die, and you go back to working in a kiosk. You can’t lose here.” 

“Oh no,” Jason agrees mildly. “Other than the trauma of watching someone splatter your brain matter all over me. And, you know, my name broadcast all over the 6 o’clock news under the title ‘New Security Guard Loses Drake Heir on First D-’” Jason pauses. “Did you say six figures?” 

“Three hundred thousand,” Tim supplies, like it’s pocket change. Must be, to a guy like him. 

Jason does his best not to whimper. “Three _ hundred _ thousand?” 

Tim blinks. “That’s the standard going rate for protecting a man in my position. Plus entitlements,” he adds after a moment’s considerations, “and dental.” 

“And dental,” Jason repeats breathlessly. He _ has _ to be dreaming. Shit like this doesn’t just _ happen _ to him. 

Tim rests an elbow up on his desk, leaning his cheek into his palm as he surveys Jason. “I have other, uh, _ hobbies _ that I could use a man of your talent for. Spelunking, skydiving, fencing, martial arts. I’m prone to more bumps and bruises than your average CEO.” 

At Jason’s confused frown, Tim waves his free hand dismissively. 

“What can I say, I’m an adrenaline junkie. Nothing to be concerned about. I just want you to be aware that I have unusual hobbies, and I may require your, um, services outside of standard hours. Do you live in East Gotham?” 

Jason lives in a tiny shoebox of an apartment in a semi-decent part of the Bowery, overlooking the derelict concrete houses of the Narrows. Houses just like the one Jason had grown up in. He shuffles uncomfortably. “I, um, I don’t-” 

“We’ll buy you an apartment nearer to my residences, so you can be on call,” Tim declares mildly, like he can just pluck an entire apartment block out of thin air. Jason’s beginning to believe he might actually be able to. “I’ll only need to call on you for severe injuries, which aren’t that common anyway. But it’s handy to have a Plan B if the first aid kit isn’t going to cut it.” 

He’s starting to feel lightheaded again. “Right,” Jason bleats numbly, and then frowns at the grain of the desk. “What did you say your hobbies were again?” 

Tim’s smile is slow and curling, private in a way that gives Jason the impression that he’s laughing, but not at Jason specifically. “They vary. Often. The takeaway being that despite what the tabloids would have you believe, I’m awfully clumsy. An absolute klutz. And Gotham’s a breeding ground for unexpected injuries. I’d like to have a man on hand to rectify any complications that may arise.” 

Jason doesn’t like the sound of that. But he also doesn’t think he’s going to see an offer this stupidly impressive in either of his lifetimes. “So security by day and…?” 

Tim shrugs. “Private nurse by night, I suppose. Whatever you want to call yourself; I’ll leave that up to you.” 

_ Head of Security Mister Jason Todd, _ Jason thinks with a thrill of excitement. It does have a nice ring to it. Not that he’s vain; at the very least, it’ll set him up nicely for his next job. Something like a Wayne Enterprises reference doesn’t get overlooked often in a place like Gotham. If he doesn’t like the gig, he can just hand in his resignation after a few months and ride the coattails into something more at his pace. 

“So,” Tim says, watching him digest the suggestion. “What do you think? Reckon you’re up to the task?” 

Jason feels the first curl of a smile settle onto his lips. Keep one elite Gothamite alive and in-tact for a few months; how difficult can that be? Jason’s literally come back from the dead. This should be a walk in the park. It’s not like the guy’s going to be braving gunfire or getting into fistfights nightly. It’s just one little CEO between the hours of nine and five, with a few eclectic hobbies to patch him up after thrown in on the side. 

Yeah, Jason’s got this. 

He meets Tim’s gaze over the desk, setting his shoulders as he nods. “How soon can I start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky last! A huge thank you to this Prompter for being so very patient with me <3 
> 
> I'm glad I got to end this Giveaway on a high note. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm really happy with how a lot of the prompts turned out. I really hope the Prompters have enjoyed them, and I hope I've managed to breathe some life into your ideas. Thank you again, so very very much, for all your support and love these last few months! It means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


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